







^BHII^ M:i)GOLM TyiLSO?] 



Class 



BookX 




3.^4.^ 



Copyright ]J^ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



MISCELLANEOUS 



POEMS 



-BY- 



IBBIE McCOLM WILSON 



Copyright, 1909 
By OLIVER H. MILLER 



LEWIS-WALLACE PRINTING COMPANY 
DES MOINES. IOWA 



^^^^^v. 

V)^^ 



.-S 



.\A 



gCU253869 



Preface 



As a memorial to the dear departed, more 
enduring than a monument of stone, the poet's 
pen-thoughts expressed in this miscellaneous 
collection, are published for the benefit and 
appreciation of the many friends and rela- 
tives of the author and her sister. 

Born of Scotch-Irish parentage and tracing 
ancestry back to one Lord Burke, Ibbie McColm 
Wilson first smiled upon this world on Feb- 
ruary 18, 1834, in Baltimore, Maryland. Spend- 
ing her childhood and young womanhood there, 
she enjoyed the advantages of the educational 
institutions of that city, becoming a proficient 
English scholar and later a skilled student and 
translator of German, Latin, Greek and Hebrew. 
She spent several years teaching in the schools 
of Maryland and Pennsylvania and in 1858 went 
to Iowa, teaching several years in Johnson, 
Iowa and Benton counties. The family remov- 
ing to Cleveland, Ohio, in 1863, she remained 
eight or nine years there, after which she spent 
some time in Iowa with her sister, and in 
1876, after returning to Baltimore, was married 
to Col. Thomas J. Wilson. He was engaged in 
the publishing business, and she became his 
assistant. They lived very happily together 
for nine or ten years, when their happiness was 



iv Preface 

shattered by the death of Col. Wilson. Upon 
the death of Col. Wilson, she took up the work 
which he laid down. Besides being engaged in 
the work of translating, Mrs. Wilson was em- 
ployed by the Baltimore Sun and the Maryland 
Journal and other newspapers, and also con- 
tributed articles to the leading magazines. Most 
of her work, however, has not been preservea, 
though she published one book entitled ''The 
Fate of the Leaf." In 1892, Mrs. Wilson went 
to Europe where she spent about a year visit- 
ing the principal cities and points of historical 
interest in Great Britain and on the continent. 
Returning to America, a couple of years were 
spent in New York City engaged in the same 
work as she had been in Baltimore, after which 
she returned to the city of her birth, to which, 
in 1905, she bid adieu and went to Iowa. At 
the home of her only sister, Mrs. Mary Louise 
Miller, in the village of Oxford, holding daily 
communion with the birds and trees and flow- 
ers and the other beauties of nature which she 
so greatly loved, Ibbie McColm Wilson spent 
the remaining days of her life, dying May 8, 
1908. 



Index 



Page 
Address to Oratorio Society of Baltimore ... .119 

All Hail 125 

An Invitation 67 

An Invitation to Thanksgiving Dinner 47 

A Tribute from His Pupil and Friend 134 

A Valentine 89 

Bachelor Girl, The 124 

Beeing 173 

Bereaved 71 

Birthday Greeting 79 

Bracket Bird's Carol, The 37 

Burning the Slough 146 

Castle Dorn 143 

Charity of Beauty, The 164 

Christmas Bells 40 

Christ Is Born, The . 52 

Coming King, The 110 

Coming Men, The 75 

Difference, The 58 

Descent from the Cross, The 97 

Fannie's Feelings 33 

Farewell 129 

Fresh Wine 96 

Grandfather Monkey 68 

Grape Unique, The 18 

Hope Embalmed 74 

If He Were He 50 

"I'm a Cripple" 57 

In the Manger 78 

Judge's Case, The 69 

Last Amen, The 77 

Merry Christmas 35 

Month s of the Year, The 83 



vi Index 

Page 

Mud-Sill Melodies — No. 1 87 

Mud-Sill Melodies — No. 2 90 

Naug-hty Newsboys 31 

Night of Life, The 45 

Numbers 130 

Ode for the Laying of a Cornerstone 38 

Ode to Ella 142 

Once More 117 

Old Year's Burial, The 98 

Oysterman's Daughter, The 20 

Paraphrase of a Portion of 42d Psalm 139 

Peace on Earth 93 

Pellegrina Pondinella 70 

Phantom Foresters, The • 25 

Plaint of the Corpse, The 28 

"Please Help the Blind" 49 

Prayer 68 

Prayer Book, The 128 

Resting River, The 43 

River-King, The 72 

Saint Brendan's Vision 1 

Saint John Baptist 141 

Sentinel of the Ages, The 60 

Shadow Solo, The 42 

Shema Yisrael 133 

Ship of Fate, The 114 

Sir Pilgrim 108 

Spiritus Ignis 5 

Tekos (The Tramp) 65 

Temples of the Lord, The .131 

The Bachelor Girl 124 

The Bracket Bird's Carol 37 

The Charity of Beauty 167 

The Christ is Born 52 

The Coming King 110 

The Coming Men 75 

The Difference ;...,....... 58 

The Descent from the Cross. ..... '.*. .aijox., . . 97 

The Grape Unique . ,'yt':;r;. . . . 18 

The Judge's Case u v. :.';it. .;.. . .... 69 



Index 



Vll 



Pag-e 

The Last Amen 77 

The Months of the Year 83 

The Night of Life 45 

The Old Year's Burial 98 

The Oysterman's Daughter 20 

The Phantom Foresters 25 

The Plaint of the Corpse 28 

The Prayer Book 128 

The Resting- River 43 

The River-King 72 

The Sentinel of the Ages 60 

The Shadow^ Solo 42 

The Ship of Fate 114 

The Temples of the Lord 131 

The Viking's Burial 80 

Thorns 155 

To Hattie 12 

Tribute from His Pupil and Friend, A 134 

Valentine, A 89 

Viking's Burial, The 80 

What Do They Think? 76 

Who Knows Why? 79 

Women Versus Men 54 



irram iaya 



Beeing 173 

Burning the Slough 146 

Castle Dorn 143 

Charity of Beauty, The .164 

Thorns 155 



The good Saint Brendan sailed away. 
Before the wintry breeze, 
To carry forth the Faith he loved, 
Across the northern seas. 

The wild waves beat upon kis boat; 

Keen grew the winds, and shrill; 
The long, long weary nights were dark; 

Yet naught he feared of ill. 

"For Angels seek these solemn seas. 

At Christmastide," said he, 
"To celebrate, on earth, with us. 

Our Lord's Nativity. 

"Then, through each iceberg's jewelled halls. 

Their heavenly music rings; 
And even now, descends the down 

From their swift-gathering wings." 

Yet, all in bitter storm and gloom. 

Had passed the Festal Day; 
And in the sobbing surge, at night. 

Saint Brendan's vessel lay. 



Saint Brendan's Vision 

Alone, he paced the icy deck, 

Absorbed in thoughful prayer; 
When, suddenly, a pallid light 

Illumed the frosty air. 

Saint Brendan lifted up his eyes, 

To see what this might be; 
And, high among the rifting clouds, 

The Moon plunged, helplessly. 

But as, at length, his gaze returned 

From wandering in the skies, 
A Vision strange, and full of dread. 

Met his affrighted eyes. 

For, close athwart his vessel's prow. 

An Iceberg whitely gleamed, 
While, dark, upon its towering crest, 

A Human Form there seemed. 

With steady stare Saint Brendan scanned 

That fearful Figure o'er; 
Then shrieked a Name, with such a shriek 

As drowned the Ocean's roar. 

"Yes! I am He — Iscariot! — 

Whom all men justly scorn; 
And I shall always curse the day 

That ever I was born. 

"Although — sometimes — when crazed by pain, 

I say it must be true 
That Christ will pardon gain for All 

Who know not what they do." 



Saint Brendan's Vision 

"But, Judas! is this Place thine own? 

Declare, if thou mayst tell," — 
Saint Brendan cried, "for men believe 

That thou art doomed in Hell." 

"Ah! — Men should know that Hell must be, 

Wherever dwells Despair; — 
Yes, — where Its fires most fiercely rage. 

The Traitor's place is there." 

"But canst thou wander thence, at will? 

Or how didst thou escape?" 
"My wondrous Story hear me tell," 

Replied the shuddering Shape. 

"One Christmas morning, as in drench 

Of seething pitch I lay, 
An Angel touched me on the arm, 

And bore my Soul away. 

"To cool, amid the Arctic seas, 

The Fires my Form within, — 
Though not to dim the quenchless Flame 

Of my remembered Sin. 

"When freezing winds had cooled my breath, 

Some syllables to frame, 
I, stammering, asKed my shining Guide, 

Why unto me he came. 

"What need to tell? The Lord declared,— 
And, surely, thou must know, — 

That no small Cup of Charity 
Can unrewarded go. 



Saint Brendan's Vision 

" 'A Leper, once, in Jot)pa's streets, 
Was struggling with the blast, 

And thou about his shoulders bare, 
Thy sheltering mantle cast. 

" "Twas I: and that thy kindly deed 

Requital may obtain, 
The Holy One, upon this Day, 

Bids me assuage thy pain.' 

"So, every Christmas morn, to me 
This Spirit, hastening, hies — 

I feel the cooling of his wings, 
Before I meet his eyes, 

"Filled with such sympathy as makes 
Contempt of Fiends and Men 

Less terrible for me to bear 
Until he comes again." 

'Twas Midnight — with a thundering crash 

The Iceberg rent in twain; 
And with the Traitor's weight of guilt, 

Sank down beneath the Main. 

Saint Brendan bowed his reverent head, 

And fell on bended knee: 
"Oh, Thanks be unto God," he said, 

"For Blessed Charity." 



Spiritus Ignis ' 5 

(The Spirit of the Fire) 

Weary, I sat before my chamber fire, 
Once when the gathering shades of evening fell; 
Without, there raged the rain's incessant roar, 
The surly tempest's angry, fitful swell. 

Sadly I mused o'er all my futile plans. 
Illusive hopes, and efforts only vain; 
The ceaseless toil of dreary human life. 
In certainty of loss, and doubt of gain. 

"Wherefore," I said, "this weary, endless moil. 
With early rising, and but tardy rest? 
It mocks the soul with utter nothingness: — 
If all were nothing, surely this were best." 

"Mortal, forbear," an unknown voice replied, 
"Thy hopeless doubt, thy bitter, baseless blame. 
Betray alone thy hapless ignorance, 
Or littleness, by far the greater shame." 

Distant the sound, like toll of solemn bells 
Across the depths of some vast, silent sea; 
Yet sweet and clear its gentle cadence fell, 
As mountain-bugle's echoed melody. 

Parting the spires of ruddy, purple flame 
A dusky Form arose; then bending, bowed; 
With both hands resting on his staff he stood; 
His ashen robes fell round him like a shroud. 



6 Spiritus Ignis 

Hoary his scanty locks and flowing beard; 
His broad, bare brow a fitting temple seemed 
For wisdom, might, and majesty serene; 
Like lightning-points his keen eyes glittering 
gleamed. 

"Spirit of primal Fire," — he said — "am I; 
Of all created beings I was first; 
First form of potent, universal Life 
That ever on astonished chaos burst. 

"Forth from the opened palm of Deity 
Into the vast abysmal void I sprang; 
I leaped, I plunged, I reeled, I whirled, I rolled; 
And far through space my joyous birth-song 
rang. 

"Blazing, for ages on and on I sped. 
Rejoicing in the glorious heat and light 
I blindly thought eternal since, alas! 
I've been the wretched thrall of cold, dark 
Night. 

"Slowly my radiant sphere grew chill and dim, 

And through it elemental strife arose, 

As quickened atoms claimed affinities, 

And fought or fled, arrayed as deadly foes. 

"Vapors ascend and, falling back in rains, 
Hiss from the molten rocks in clouds of steam; 
Storms fiercely rage, and horrid thunders roll; 
Amid the gloom terrific lightnings gleam. 



Spiritus Ignis 7 

"Shuddered the new-made Earth, asunder rent, 
And I bemoaned creation all undone. 
But, lo! the shoreless ocean rolled around; 
Creation's work was scarcely yet begun. 

"Dreary, and dull, and dense, and desolate, 
The vacant waters idly swirled and swayed 
Through sterile ages of monotony: — 
I marvelled o'er a world so vainly made. 

"Convulsed at length, the surges throb and 

seethe; 
The rocks beneath, in mighty fragments rent, 
Rush quaking from their places, and amain, 
Piling their masses, scale the firmament. 

"Perching on lonely peaks of granite bare 
I whiled the hours of many a cyclic day, 
Watching the Land wrest empire from the Sea, 
And each new gain by torrents swept away. 

"Watching the phases of Silurian Life 
Wherewith successively the waters teem, 
Till Earth expands her rocky, fiery jaws. 
And swift they vanish as a baseless dream. 

"Building vast systems only to destroy 
Seemed Nature's aim and object; — nothing 

more: — 
Until I late perceived that each new age 
Ranked higher than the one that went before. 

"Nobler its forms, their larger faculties, 
Surely, though by gradations slow, ascend. 
The growing Earth superior uses served: 
Nature was working for some special end. 



8 Spiritus Ignis 

"Basking extended on a torrid beach, 

In languid torpor, idly then I lay: 

In listless wonder what would next befall 

I slowly dreamed the lengthened hours away. 

"Sudden and swift a pulse of unknown life 
Its ecstasy through all my being thrilled; 
New forces to its depths my hature stirred, 
With strange and untried powers my soul was 
filled. 

"Clutching the sands with frightened, frantic 

grasp, 
My lengthening limbs I firmly fastened there; 
Then sprang aloft in lustrous verdure clothed, 
And stood a giant forest in mid-air. 

"Proudly I swelled each rugged, bulky bole, 
And far abroad its branching arms outspread, 
As through the sunshine and the shadowy mists, 
Grandly upreared each lofty, verdant head. 

"Breathing perennial airs of softest balm. 
Once more resorbing heat and light devine, 
I bathed my waving fronds in showers and dews, 
I drank my fill of deadly carbcn-wine. 

"Breezes sang softly; mad winds wildly raved; 
Waves lapsed along the shores in melody; 
With various life the tepid marshes swarmed; 
Strange Saurian monsters came to claim the 



Spiritus Ignis 9 

"Smiling above me stretched cerulean skies; 
And back to them an answering smile I sent. 
I now discerned the aim of Nature's plan, 
And spent an aeon of supreme content. 

"Worthy, I saw, this glorious result; 

This grand expanse of ocean, earth, and air, 

Of all the effort and delay required 

To found a world so populous and fair. 

"Planning for this, I saw, had Nature toiled; 
For this her works destroyed and fashioned 

o'er; 
I saw — Alas! I saw the heavens depart; 
Slowly I sank submerged, and saw no more. 

"Buried in beds of mud, and silt, and slime, 
With gasping, writhing myriads then I lay; 
And hardening in stony, black despair, 
Helpless, I moaned the hopeless years away. 

"I heard the seas above me thundering roll; 
I felt the solid rocks vibrate below. 
And ice, relentless, grind Earth's growth away, 
For ages more, what passed I could not know. 

"Naught cared I now for what might else befall: 
Whatever happened, this to me was plain: — 
Though all of Nature's plans might not be 

foiled, 
I was a failure: I was made in vain. 



1 Spiritus Ignis 

"Forces beneath me rising then once more 
Restored me to the light of Heaven again, 
To a fresh world of wondrous loveliness, 
Peopled with mighty beasts, and lordly men. 

"Roused from the slumbers of the dismal past. 
Entranced, upon the scene I tireless gaze; 
Each new display of Nature's fertile powers 
Absorbs me with a new and glad amaze. 

"Wiser I'd grown and waited calmly now 
The coming of each subsequent event, 
'inough cold, and dark, and seeming dead I lay, 
I rested patient in assured content. 

"Hammers and picks could give me no alarm ; 
The blasting filled me with delirious joy, 
Without a fear of what my fate might be 
I yielded to the powers mankind employ. 

"Wielding o'er earth the forces of the skies. 
The delegated sway of Deity, 
Man breaks the cruel spells of Night and Death, 
And sets the Spirit of their captive free. 

"Blindly he yet ignores his lofty powers, — 
The greatness of his destined high estate, — 
Sits and bewails his momentary ills, 
And rails in impious haste against his fate. 

"Timid, he quails before each mimic storm ; 
Of every good deplores the needful cost; 
And when his cherished hopes in ruins lie. 
Thinks all the good of life forever lost. 



Spiritus Ignis 1 1 

"Grateful to you for liberty regained, 
A tribute back I fain would seek to bring: 
My warmth and brightness gladly I diffuse, 
And as a warning my strange story sing. 

"Courage, despondent Man! and wisdom, too. 
From my experience you at least may gain; 
And if my blunders lead your steps aright, 
I shall not then have blundered all in vain. 

"Patient abide, through good or evil days; 
Work willingly; serenely, calmly wait; 
Sure that each ruined era but evolves 
The basis of a higher, nobler state. 

"Back to the stars again, I now must speed, 
Another course of usefulness to run 
What comes to me henceforth I'll trust is good. 
Farewell! To-night my earthly work is done." 

Snapping his golden girdle's jeweled clasp, 
He dropped his dusky robe and mantle grey. 
A blinding flash of flame shot up on high: 
Around my hearth the scattered ashes lay. 

Since, though my lot has often been severe, 
I've better borne its weight of care and pain; 
I, working, wait and trustful hope the while 
That every loss will bring some better gain. 

I see the Spirit's Form in every fire. 

His lessons in my memory remain: 

A cheering warmth my aching heart pervades; 

A light still lingers in my weary brain. 



12 To Hattie 



®fl l^atti^ 



I have r.ead the simple legend 

Read the "Song of Hiawatha": — 

Read of Hiawatha's prowess, 

Of his wonderful achievements 

In a cause so patriotic 

As the progress of his people. 

Read the story of his childhood, 

Of his childhood wild and lonely. 

With no friends but good Nokomis 

And the boaster, old lagoo; 

Or at least none that we read of 

Though I think it not unlikely 

That the children of the village 

Sometimes shared his sports and pleasures. 

Of his intercourse with Nature, 

Very beautiful and touching 

In simplicity and pathos. 

Of his growing up to manhood 

His mad visit to his father. 

To the West Wind, Mudjekeewis; 

Of his change of disposition 

Consequent upon that visit. 

Read of how he prayed and fasted 

Seven whole days and nights successive; 

Of his struggle with Mondamin, 

With the lovely youth Mondamin, — 

Never was a youth more charming 

Than this green and gold Mondamin. 

I have read too of his friendships. 



To Hattie 13 

Frindships true, and strong, and lasting 

Such as well deserved that title: — 

And in this thing if no other 

Let us hope that many people 

More refined and more enlightened 

May resemble Hiawatha 

Imitate this noble savage. 

I read also of his sailing 

Of his sailing and his fishing. 

And his conflict with Pearl-Father, 

With the god of Wealth and Wampum: — 

Wondrous tales, but very childish, 

They remind me of the stories 

That amused me in my childhood 

Of the famed Sinbad the Sailor, 

And of Jack the Giant Killer. 

Then his expeditious wooing 

Of the maiden Laughing Water, 

And her very prompt acceptance 

Of his gift and his addresses. 

Then of Hiawatha's wedding 

And the comical assemblage 

Met to grace the grand occasion. 

And the various expedients 

That Nokomis had recourse to, 

To "kill time" as we would have it 

And to make her guests "contented:" 

And I wondered as I read it 

If it commonly requires 

Such exertion of the hostess 

That the guests may be — "contented:'' 

But I fear that I will tire you 



14 To Haiti e 

With my prosing and reflections, 

Yet I can't forbear to mention 

The queer story of lagoo, 

To remind you of Osseo 

Of the ugly old Osseo 

Who though ugly and decrepit 

Had a soul of fairest beauty 

Had a soul of brightest lustre 

Had a heart so pure and lovely 

That it took my own a captive 

Took my own a willing captive 

And I thanked the old lagoo 

For the story of Osseo. 

But you asked for my opinion 

On the merits of the legend, 

On the merits of the author 

Of the "Song of Hiawatha" 

And I promised I would give it 

So now that I have read it 

Have read every chapter in it 

I would fain redeem my promise 

And would tell you that I like it: — 

Like the wild and simple story 

With the freshness of the morning 

With the dewdrops bright upon it, 

With the fragrance of sweet flowers. 

With the shadow and the sunshine, 

With the mellow notes of birdlings, 

And the sighing through the branches 

Of the gentle winds of summer. 

Or the howling of the tempest 

On the cold dark nights of winter; 



To Hattie 15 

Or the majesty of thunder, 

Or the dashing of the waters, 

Or the glory of the sunset 

Of the moon, the stars, the night-time, 

With the beauties of all Nature 

Shining on each page resplendent. 

Yes, I like the childlike story 

And I like the author of it; 

No, I more than like the poet, 

Who could write a "Hiawatha": 

For the breathing of his music 

As it floats along the heart-lyre 

Finds an echo on the heart strings 

That will linger wnile a heart string 

Shall be left to thrill responsive: 

For his sweet melodious numbers 

In harmonious cadence swelling 

Like the rushing of a river 

Or the heave of mighty ocean 

Stir up all the soul within me 

Waken all my better feelings 

Waken "longings, yearnings, strivings" 

For the beautiful and holy 

Of the "Here and the Hereafter," 

He abounds in truthful feeling, 

And in simile poetic, 

Has a rich imagination 

And a quick and keen perception 

Of all beauties seen and hidden. 

Points that always strike my fancy 

And particularly charm me; 

And it is in these things chiefly 



16 To Hattie 

That I think our pleasing poet 
Most excels and most delights us. 
But my sad fault-finding nature 
Ever whispers to my judgment 
" 'Tis imperfect, 'tis imperfect, 
Write on all things 'Imperfection.' " 
Therefore do I find objections 
Find some very strong objections 
To this "Song of Hiawatha;" 
And I marvel much that writers 
Men of learning, men of talent, 
Will not give us books whose contents 
We may read aloud to others. 

Do you ever long for freedom 
Prom the shackles and the trammels 
Of our life so cold and formal? 
Long to be a child of Nature 
And to live with Nature's children 
■ Live the wild life of the Indian? 
Long to wander through the forest, 
Long to climb the rugged mountain 
Or descending to the valley 
There to trace the shining river 
And to float upon its waters 
With a heart as free and happy ' 
Free from care, and glad and joyous 
As the wild-bird's song of pleasure; 
As the gushing, leaping, dancing 
Of the merry mountain streamlet? 
I do sometimes, for a moment 
But I very soon remember 
That this life of careless roaming 



To Hattie 1? 

That this life of idle dreaming 
Would deprive me of my book-friends 
Of the necessary presence 
Of my wise and good companions 
Who so kindly soothe and cheer me 
When my heart is sad and lonely. 
Then ashamed of my impatience 
I confess myself an ingrate 
And I still my heart's complaining 
With the thought that soon at farthest 
God will send the kind Death-Angel 
To unbar my soul's dark prison, 
To unbind its fettered pinions, 
And to bid the trembling captive 
Soar away into the regions 
Of the glorious "Hereafter." 

Asking many thousand pardons 
Of yourself and of the poet — 
Of the poet for the freedom 
I have taken with his verses. 
And for having played so poorly 
Both the critic and the mimic: — 
And of you for the intrusion 
Of my worthless thoughts upon you — 
Very humbly asking pardon 
I will send you this, dear Hattie, 
Laying the command upon you 
That as soon as you have read it 
Or before, if it so please you. 
You will tear it up or burn it 
Or some otherwise destroy it 
That I may not be tormented 



18 The Grape Unique 

As I always am by thinking 
That my weak and rude productions, 
These rough monuments unchisled 
By the master hand of genius 
Will perpetuate my follies. 

Pray accept my warmest wishes 
For your happiness and welfare 
And believe that I am ever 

Yours affectionately, 

— Ibbie. 



Resplendent globe, 

Whose purple robe 
Thy royal rank declares, 

With thy rich blood 

In gracious flood 
What other stream compares? 

Fresh on the vine 

Where tendrils twine 
Thy perfect form around, 

In bowers of green. 

And silvery sheen, 
Thy hidden charms are found. 

And when mature, 

Refined and pure, 
With Nature's force replete, 

For right and wrong 

Thy powers are strong; 
Thy potencies how sweet! 



The Grape Unique 19 

For crimson stains 

Of sins and pains 
From thy mad pulses flow; 

Thougli golden light, 

Than stars more bright, 
Beams from thy sacred glow. 

When weak and worn, 

Sad and forlorn, 
By ruthless Fate distressed, 

Thy festive cheer 

Dispels man's fear. 
And Hope dilates his breast. 

Poetic fire 

Thou canst inspire 
To ecstasy sublime; 

Or, to all ill. 

Pervert man's will, 
And nerve his hand for crime. 

We also trace 

Still higher grace 
Mysterious One, in thee. 

Channel divine. 

And radiant shrine, 
Of heavenly energy. 

Potential Thou! 

We know not how. 
Nor why, thy frame should be 

The chosen cell 

Where deigns to dwell 
Alminghty Deity. 



20 ~ The Oyster man's Daughter 

All — Potency! 

We search for Thee 
Through Thy dominions wide; 

Then, wondering see 

Infinity 
In this small sphere abide. 

Yet, Fruit benign, 

Earthborn; divine; 
Herein lies mystery: 

That foul fiends dare 

Inhabit where 
Reigns sole Supremacy. 

One other cell 

Exists as well 
Which God and demons share: 

Weak human Heart, 

Thou, only, art 
The arbitrator there. 

Angels who fell. 

From heaven to hell, 
Were doomed, thenceforth, of yore; 

But Man may choose, — 

Regain, or lose, — 
His Paradise once more. 



Walls of blue steel grew up around 

A floor of leaden sea; 
A copper coping hung aloft, 

Its baneful canopy; 
While in the west, the great red sun 

Was sinking heavily. 



The Oysterman's Daughter 21 

Where to the southward, far and wide, 

The vision sweeps away, 
A fleet of oyster-boats, becalmed, 

On the still waters lay; 
Or, in the distance stood apart. 

As gulls rest on the Bay. 

Yet steadily the boatmen wrought, 

Slow-singing, as they plied 
The dredges, or tall oyster-tongs, 

And with each other vied 
In capturing, and lading up. 

The treasures of the tide. 

One little craft there was, alone. 

Where idleness beguiled 
The sultry hour. A Father, there, 

Held in his arms his Child, 
Who, in his heart, on darkest day. 

Made sunshine when she smiled. 

Rough and begrimed, externally, 

The Oysterman might be, 
Yet polished fine, by Nature's grace. 

Inside the shell was he, — 
Its whiteness flecked with gleaming glints 

Of colors fair to see. 

As for the child that to his heart 

So tenderly he pressed. 
She was the pearl that ever lay 

Clasped closely on his breast; 
The treasure by kind Heaven vouchsafed, 

His life to render blest. 



22 The Oyster man's Daughter 

They lived alone, among the pines, 
And barrens wild and bleak, 

Their home a cabin on the shore, 
Beside a shining creek. 

That, like a serpent, writhing, slid 
Into the Chesapeake. 

He was not young; and she was all 
That Fate to him had spared; 

And thought of severance from her 
To think he never dared. 

He lived to make her happiness, 
Nor for aught else he cared. 

So, when the brazen, burning glare 

Spread over sky and sea. 
The Oysterman sat down, and took 

His daughter on his knee. 
From sense of being motherless 

To keep her spirit free. 

Though gaunt and gray the Oysterman, 
His voice and eye were mild, 

As with his wonted tenderness 
He soothed the weary Child, 

With croon of gentle lullaby. 
Or tale of wonder wild. 

He told her of the gorgeous sights 

In the city far away. 
And said that she should see them soon, 

When he sailed up the Bay; 
And promised her abunda;pt store 

Of toys, and fine array. 



The Oysterman's Daughter 25 

He kissed the peach-bloom of her cheek; 

He stroked her tawny hair; 
And pressed her little dimpled hand 

Against his bosom bare. 
And all his soul with rapture thrilled 

To hold her pillowed there. 

And when her eyelids drooped upon 

His heaven in her eyes, 
He, dreaming, planned the future bright 

That should her life surprise, 
And crown him with the love of one 

So good, and fair, and wase. 

Meanwhile, the steeds from Neptune's stalls 

Had left their ocean-play. 
And in portentous, angry haste 

Came racing up the Bay; 
Foaming and champing at their bits, 

With roar of muffled neigh. 

With snowy mane, and lashing tail, 

They leap exultingly. 
And soon awake to tumult wild 

The somber, sullen sea, 
That all the silent afternoon 

Had slept in treachery. 

The pungy rocked, a curling wave 

Broke over it in spray: 
Swift, seeking safety for his child. 

The Sailor sprang away, 
To battle with the elements: 

Nor did he fear the fray. 



24 The Oysterman's Daughter 

The air grew black, the thunder crashed. 

Fast blew the fearful gale: — 
On, on, the little pungy sped 

While yet half-reefed its sail; 
But of a score of fearful storms 

Its master knew the tale. 

Then fell the night amid the squall; 

Still madly raged the Bay; 
Whirled by the winds from east and west. 

The boat dashed on its way: — 
Beaten by turns this way and that, 

On each side half it lay. 

Till, lifted finally, it rose. 

And with successive shocks, 
It pounded, lodged, and stranded lay 

Among the reefing rocks. 
With parting seams, and bottom 

Fast moored in Nature's docks. 

When, through each crevice of the deck 

The waters rushed full fast, 
About his Daughter's fragile form 

His coat the Father cast. 
And with a rope securely tied, 

He bound her to the mast. 

With thankful heart, the Oysterman 

Prepared his watch to keep. 
With arm about the Child outstretched 

Standing submerged, knee-deep: 
And on his shoulder laid her head, 

That she, perchance, might sleep. 



The Phantom Foresters 25 

He bade her trust his loving care, 

And never feel a fear, 
For Angels watched them from the sky, 

And God himself was near, 
Who would protect her from all harm, 

Since she to Him was dear. 

The tempest spent itself, at last. 

Subsiding peacefully. 
Half-sped the nignt; the stars came out. 

And spangled all the sea: — 
The Child was sleeping on the mast. 

Her Father — how fared he? 

Through long, dark hours he calmly stood, 
Stunned by the wild waves roar; 

Until a drifting log dashed by. 
Sweeping him on before. — 

A passing steamer carried him. 
Unconscious, to the shore. 

Swift, with the flush of earliest dawn, 

Across the rippling wave, 
The Father came, in eager haste. 

His precious Child to save. — 
Lashed to the fallen mast she lay: 

The blue Bay was her grave. 



Along the low and level shores 

That stretch and curve away 

From mainland, inland, cove, and point 



26 The Phantom Foresters 

Adown the wide blue Bay, 

Where sedges nod, and cornfields wave. 

With curb of yellow sands, 

Beneath tall elms and maple shades 

Each neat, quaint homestead stands. 

Amid its orchards spreading wide. 

In bloom of beauteous robes. 

Or slowly storing lucious wealth 

In glowing, downy globes: 

While reaching onward, north and south. 

Across the changeful surge, 

Dim purple glooms of forest bound 

The far horizon's verge. 

But sometimes to the foreground near 

The stealthy \voodlands creep 

As though in heedless moment caught 

By the wild waters' sweep: 

Or lured by music of the waves; 

Or by their rage and roar; 

Or by the cadenced swells that surge 

Across from shore to shore. 

These to the eyes of mariners 

A secret strange unfold. 

Which to the ears of mortal men 

No sprite has ever told. 

For there each voyager that sails 

Across the mystic deep 

Can see the Phantom Foresters 

Their wonted revels keep. 



The Phantom Foresters 27 

And where the pine trees' bare brown boles 

The forest spaces show 

The bands of festive Phantom Shades 

Go whirling to and fro. 

Waltzing in mazes slow or swift, 

As ebbs or flows the sea, 

They never for an instant pause 

In their weird revelry. 

To every beat of booming wave 

That strikes the wearied shore 

The lithe forms sway in willowy grace 

Across the forest floor: 

In measures true to wavelets play 

Among the whispering sands, 

Or to the rush of frantic tides 

That desolate the lands. 

They wait not for the dusky night, 
Nor for the moon's dim ray, 
But solemnly disport themselves 
Throughout the sunlit day. 
And every snowy sail that speeds 
Before the urgent breeze 
May sight the Phantom Foresters 
Gliding among the trees. 

Yet sail or steamer may not stop 

The pinelands to explore 

For them the Vision fades away, 

And will return no more 

Until the travlers, again. 

Set sail upon the Bay, 

When every sportive Forester 

Resumes the dance, straightway. 



28 The Plaint of the Corpse 

Then say not folk of fairy lore 
On earth no longer dwell; 
All voyagers adown the Bay 
For other tales can tell. 
Yet question not; Bay shores are fair 
As fairy realms could be: — 
With senses of his own to trust, 
Who doubts may go and see. 



With senses that can not be feeling, 

Though like them in some sort of way, 
I am able to see without vision, 

To hear all the sounds of the day, 
And to know what occurs to the Figure 

Of frozen inanimate clay 
Which once was Myself, and yet whether, 

Though close to it somewhere I stay, 
I now am without or within it, 

I am not at all able to say. 

I know that this Figure is lying, 

Pent up in its close narrow bed. 
With a very poor sort of a pillow 

Beneath its indifferent head. 
That it has not a pang left cf hunger, 

Although it was never well fed, 
Not an ache, nor a pain, nor discomfort 

Despite the wild life it has led. 
But while it jolts over the cobbles. 



The Plaint of the Corpse 29 

As slowly the hearse horses tread, 
I must be excused that I wonder 
If this is the way to be dead. 

I thought that the dead were unconscious: 

That when my quick pulses should rest, 
When my weak brain should cease its commo- 
tion. 

And the poor heart grow still in my breast, 
There would be nothing left but my Body: 

That not the most vigilant quest 
From the poles to the burning equator. 

Or round the wide world east and west. 
Would reveal any trace of a mortal 

Who never knew Life at its best. 

But what do I mean by "My Body"? 

And who is the still conscious I, 
That owns it, and goes along with it. 

Regardless that Bodies can die? 
What am I? Where am I? How is it 

That though I most earnestly try 
I can not locate or discover 

The thing that must surely be I! 
The Self that contrives to elude me. 

This Self that refuses to die! 

That I am, and am going some whither. 
Is as plain as to sense it could be, 

But the what, and the where are the questions 
That puzzle mysterious Me. 

Like a ship with its pointed prow parting 
The waves of a dark, unknown sea. 



30 The Plaint of the Corpse 

My wedge of a coffin is cleaving, 

Alike for my Body and Me, 
A pathway through space to some region 

Where that which has being must he. 

Shall I enter the grave with my Body? — 

Still mine though I use it no more! — 
Having sown to the flesh, must corruption 

Be all my futurity's store? 
Shall I lie there while vile things are creeping 

My mouldering carcass all o'er, 
Till I enter the form of some reptile. 

Myself quite as low and as poor? 

would I might sleep without dreaming 
Until even Time were no more! 

Might sleep! But death seems only waking. 

Such a waking as never before 
Has quickened my dead-alive conscience: 

And scanning my history o'er, 

1 long for a just retribution, 
A payment of penalty sore, 

And will sink through the earth to perdition 

My manifold sins to deplore. 
For I would not dare walk into heaven 

Though left at its unguarded door. 

And yet — when my parents were wicked. 

And taught me all law to defy. 
For the nature and training they gave me 

Pray who is responsible? I? 
Oh no! I shall trust the Almighty 

To give me a fair chance to try 



Naughty Newsboys 31 

To do what is right, understanding 
His law with its consequent Why; 

Or else, blot Me quite out of being, 
And let the whole Self of me die! 



" 'Here's your World, sir; please to buy it, 

For my mother's sick in bed; 
Little sister's back is broken; 

And my poor old father's dead.' 

"Do you think that fetched him, fellows? 

That he'd care if mother'd die? 
No! he had to have the paper: 

There's no pity in his eye! 

"Come! you needn't think I'm hoaxing. 
When I'm preaching gospel truth: — 

Don't I learn, in school, on Sundays, 
To be moral in my youth? 

"Mother always says she's heartsick 
Since her hopes in life have fled; 

Jennie's crooked, and you know it; 
And the old man's drunken-dead." 

"Here's a lady; looks soft-hearted. 

I can move her heart, perhaps; 
But I'll try another racket, 

For a lesson to these chaps. 



32 Naughty Newsboys 

"Madam, could you spare a nickel 

On a fellow's birthday, when 
He has not a single penny? 

Thank you! Wont you make it ten? 

"None of your 'ha-has,' you kidlets. 
If you don't want broken heads. 

And if you've no eye for business. 
Run home to your little beds. 

"'Home and beds!' You think I'm joking. 

But we'll have fine quarters soon, 
When the Newsboys' Home is furnished, 

Which it is to be in June." 

"What is that you're saying, Jenkins? 

That your mother thinks it wrong? 
Cried about it when she heard it; 

Groans about it all day long? 

"Says these kindly souls a blunder 

Of benevolence will make, 
With their bait of bed and breakfast, 

All the boys from home to take? 

"That the children, now half vagrants, 

Independent then will be, 
And from all the cares and duties 

Of a home life be quite free? 

"Well; go tell your mother, Jenkins, 
That I've known for quite a while. 

That home-life is antiquated. 
And is going out of style. 



Fannie' s Feelings 35 



"Tell her that the modern mother 
From her home must busy be, 

Earning bread to feed her children 
Or must run humanity." 



iFantttr'a iF^^littgs* 



When I read your verses, Clarence, 
On the JournaVs foremost page, 

For three-quarters of a minute 
I was in a fearful rage. 

For it surely was atrocious 

Thus to blazon through the Press, 

All our doings of last summer. 
And your consequent distress. 

I'd a mind not to forgive you; 

I suppose, though, that I must. 
Since of course you meant it kindly. 

And I would not be unjust. 

I am sorry all the country 

Takes my absence so to heart. 
Tell the woods, and streams and so forth. 

That the best of friends must part. 

If these birds are so unhappy. 

Why not shoot the lovely things? 

Take your gun and try, some morning; 

I could utilize their wings. 

♦(This poem was written in answer to a poem 
entitled "When the Birds Again Are Singing," 
and signed "Clar," which appeared in the "Mary- 
land Journal.") 



34 Fannie' s Feelings 

I don't like to make things wretched; 

But I had to leave, you know: 
For as summer with one swallow, 

Would be winter with one beau. 

And I've had a charming season; 

Gay and festive times, so far: 
Parties, germans, two proposals! 

How delightful such things are! 

And there's more such fun awaiting 
Us gay girls, on pleasure bent; 

For we mean to make things lively 
Till the coming in of Lent. 

Now about your invitation 
For next summer, I will try 

To return to fields of clover, 

When the wintry months roll by. 

For I see, O Clarence, Clarence, 
By the way you play the bard. 

You unfortunate young fellow. 
That you must be hit quite hard. 

And the absolute devotion 
Of a "case" so "gone" as this. 

Though absurd, is quite delicious 
And too rich a treat to miss. 

In the meantime, fix your buggy; 

And especially make sure 
Of the harness; for I'm timid 

If those straps are not secure. 



Merry Christmas 35 

Don't forget about the chickens; 

Have them set in time; for I, 
To salt mackerel and bacon 

Much prefer nice chicken-pie. 

And a broil is nice for breakfast, 
Ere those "dewey meads" we try; 

While a long tramp by the streamlet 
Makes good supper of 'a fry. 

With these things to keep you busy, 
The short days will pass, cil we, 

After scouring half the country. 
Rest beneath that willow tree. 

So, when birds again are singing, — 
Those you miss will sing on still,; — 

You shall find your festive Fanny, 
At the cot beside the hill. 



iH^rrg QUirtHtmaa 



Peal the bells! 'Tis Christmas morn, 

Merry Christmas! 
Hail the day the Christ was born. 

Merry Christmas! 
Angel choirs new anthems sing; 
Sons of men your tribute bring; 
All creation echoing, 

Welcome merry Christmas. 



36 Merry Christmas 

Peal the bells! This festive day, 

Merry Christmas, 
Must have greeting glad and gay, 

Merry Christmas! 
Let the joyous song resound, 
All the spacious earth around 
Nor one silent soul be found 

On the merry Christmas. 

Peal the bells! The -gladsome strain, 

Merry Christmas, 
Echoes in prolonged refrain. 

Merry Christmas! 
Yet there rings not joy alone; 
Grief's inevitable moan 
Lends its mournful undertone 

To the merry Christmas. 

Peal the bells! Through every clime 

Merry Christmas, 
Greets the nations with its chimes 

Merry Christmas! 
But full many a heart can tell 
In the music's deepest swell. 
Solemn sound of parting knell. 

On the merry Christmas. 

How can lonely mourners say 

Merry Christmas? 
How a sad soul call the day 

Merry Christmas? 
Can distress and pain and care. 
Withered want and grim despair. 
In the grace and glory share 

Of the merry Christmas? 



The Bracket Bird's Carol 37 

Can this sacred, happy time, 

Merry Christmas, 
Be to souls debased by crime 

Merry Christmas? 
Does this gracious holy-tide 
For life's ills relief provide. 
Bring a blessing to abide 

After merry Christmas? 

Peal the bells! 'Tis even so. 

Merry Christmas, 
Spans Life's clouds with Hope's bright bow; 

Merry Christmas 
Is to sad humanity 
Pledge of happiness to be 
Brought to its futurity 

Through the merry Christmas. 

This the prototype, blest Day! 

Merry Christmas! 
Of the joys that last for aye. 

Merry Christmas 
Is an earnest of the store 
Of rich blessings God will pour 
O'er the world for evermore. 

Endless m^rrv Christmas. 



®I|0 Irark^t Itr&'a QIarol 

How blest it is to be a bird, 
And have a heart that sings! 

January 7, 1901. Written for Miss Indiana 
Comegys. 



38 Ode 

To soar above earth's pleasant fields 
On strong, unfettered wings! 

He skims rough Difficulty's streams 
With sweep of pinion bold; 

And vested warm by Nature's care 
Fears never storm nor cold. 

Even when "driven to the wall", 

Far from his native nest, 
In calm content he ponders o'er 

The blessedness of rest. 
His downy bosom swells with peace; 

He foldeth fast his wings; 
His dreams are filled with silent songs: 

Then waketh he, and sings. 



For the laying of the corner-stone of the new 

Temple of the First Baltimore Hebrew 

congregation. 

A firm and sure foundation stone 

Beneath our walls we lay. 
When we a sacred Temple rear. 

Wherein to God we pray, 
Where tuneful voices sing his praise. 
And grateful hearts glad homage pay. 

For we, like David's royal son. 
With willing hands would frame 

The hallowed shrine in which may dwell 
Our God's most holy Name: 

And where, as Lord of heaven and earth,^ 

The God of Israel we proclaim. 



Ode 39 

The stone which by the nations great. 

And mightier far than we, 
For ages long has been refused, 

Our corner-stone shall be: 
The Lord of hosts we worship here; 
His Name is One, and One is He, 

O Lord and Father, God alone, 

Accept the gifts we bring, 
And let thy gracious eyes respect 

Our pious offering; 
The tribute of thy children's love, 
To Thee, their everlasting King. 

When in this house we worship thee, 

O Lord, thy people bless: 
Blot out, and cover, all the sins 

Which humbly we confess. 
Look down from heaven, thy dwelling place, 
And send us comfort in distress. 

Nor for ourselves alone, do we 

Thy blessings. Lord, implore: 
But may the pious strangers, too, 

Who here thy name adore. 
Be heard by Thee in heaven, and share 
With us, thy Peace, forevermore. 

O Thou, whose mighty hand uath laid 

The earth's foundations sure. 
Whose own right hand spanned out, of old. 

The heavens bright and pure. 
Grant us thy mercies, and thy grace. 
While earth shall last, and heaven endure. 



40 Christinas Bells 



OIlinBtmas 2JpUfi 



The world has sunk to its dreamful rest; 

Soft lies the snow on the Earth's cold breast; 

The stars in their courses, silently 

Sweep on through the darkling midnight sky. 
And Christmas bells solemnly ring 
The Song of the Angels echoing. 

The song that never again shall cease: 

" 'To God in the highest be glory; and peace,' 

Which erst from the world was mournfully 

driven, 
Back to mankind again be given." 

Christmas Bells! hopefully ring; 

Glad tidings of great joy you bring. 

Joy to a world by its woes distressed; 
By the grief and shame of its guilt oppressed; 
For the Lord of Life has come from the skies, 
That the vilest heart to His own may rise. 

Christmas Bells! joyfully ring; 

Hope to the hopeless soul you bring. 

Your glad sounds usher the generous cheer. 
The gathering throngs of friends most dear. 
The festival gay, the music, the mirth. 
That welcome the summons' to peace on earth. 

Christmas Bells! merrily ring; 

To happy hearts fresh gladness bring. 

To eager childhood, what beside 
Compares with the joys of Christmas-tide? 



Christmas Bells 41 

How brightens the shining of innocent eyes 
That wake to the season's glad surprise. 

Christmas Bells! merrily ring; 

Delights to youthful hosts you bring. 

Rare pleasures even to the hapless poor, 
The season brings, in its bounteous store: 
For old, and for young, for the sad, and the gay, 
There are blessings unwonted on Christmas Day. 

Christmas Bells! cheerily ring; 

Good gifts to all, you surely bring. 

Ring, Bells! for the friends, who, far away, 

Share not the mirth of our festal day. 

Ring joy to them wherever they be; 

And waft them our greeting, o'er land and o'er 
sea. 
And Christmas Bells! the while you ring. 
Good tidings from the absent bring. 

Dear Bells! how oft, in the olden time, 
We listened to your gladsome chime. 
With those who now deep-slumbering lie, 
Beyond the reach of your melody. 

Christmas Bells! tenderly ring; 

Blest memories of the dead you bring. 

A-las! old Bells, ye have rung for years. 
Notes that were music in angels' ears. 
Yet hearts there are where the songs you sing 
Have found not the faintest echoing. 

Christmas Bells! patiently ring; 

Peace e'en to these, you yet may bring. 

Sad soul, who hast naught that the soul re- 
quires; 



42 The Shadow Solo 

Dead heart, consumed in thine own fierce fires; 
The Bells have a message, especial, for thee: 
"Thou art not yet, what thou yet shall be." 
Christmas Bells! lovingly ring. 
And fresh, sweet life to the crushed heart 
bring. 

Shall a world, for its fashioning, eons need, 

And a soul be moulded with greater speed? 

First chaos; then fires; then floods; then gloom; 

Then reptile vices: then virtues come. 

So Christmas Bells, through the ages ring, 
And the era of perfect manhood bring. 

Then welcome the Day of the Saviours birth, 
And His gift of Life to the death-doomed earth. 
And let us all offer both life and love 
To the below, and to Him above. 

Christmas Bells! triumphantly ring; 

To Christ, the Lord, your tribute bring. 



(Respectfully inscribed to Professor Pache.) 

O Master Mind carved solid notes 

Of music fine and rare. 
And set them where the sunshine fell 

Upon the sculptures fair. 

Another Master found their forms 

Traced on the ambient air; 
And softly as a spirit breathes 

He sang the shadows there. 
February 27, 1900. 



The Resting River 43 

QH}t Sfattng Ster 

"O River! rolling to the sea, 

Thy restless floods restrain! 
Indulgent curb thy ceaseless haste 

To reach the raging main. 
Stretched on thy bed of silver sands 

And pillowing rocks, below, 
Rest peacefully, and then refreshed. 

Upon thy journey go." 
The rushing River answered, "iNay; 
I must be ever on my way." 

"O Time! that through an endless course 

Dost thy long flight pursue, 
Are there not years enough in store 

For all that thou wouldst do? 
From circling suns and stars descend 

To some tall mountain's crest. 
And nested in its downy snows 

Thy folded pinions rest." 
Time would not pauee one word to say; 
But grimly smiled, and sped away. 

"O Life! along the city's streets 

How wonderful thy flow, 
As all day long the pulsing tides 

At once both come and go! 
And through the thunderous thoroughfares 

What freights of joy and woe. 
By mortals multitudinous, 

Are carried to and fro! 
What hope, love, hate, what grief and care 
Thy swirling currents mingle there!" 



44 The Resting River 

Morn's early waves bring servile shoals 

To dash on reefs of toil; 
And later streams bear slower drift 

For daily grind and moil. 
Then surges fill the marts of trade; 

While, gorgeous in array, 
The bride unto the altar sails; 

The dead are borne away. 
And crested o'er with varying light 
Waves follow into lapsing night. 

Then ebbs aw^ay the mighty flood, — 

As when, in fevered dream. 
The sands beneath it swallow up 

The waters of a stream; — 
Till from the roaring streets the throngs 

That sw^ept through them by day, 
In human and inhuman forms. 

Have melted quite away; 
And in the solemn midnignt air 
The channels of the street lie bare. 

Back to its sources in the deep 

Day's river rolls its tide. 
To rest by night in caves of isles 

That stud Life's ocean wide: 
Where for awhile some wavelets play 

In halls with splendor bright. 
While others shrink, in pain or shame, 

From the dark face of Night, 
Until, by weariness opprest, 
They sink to fitful dreams of rest. 



The Night of Life 45 

Then o'er the Resting River broods 

Blest Night with sheltering wing, 
Ihat sheds a thousand precious balms 

Upon each living thing. 
Rest, strength, forgetfulness, and peace 

With dewy freshness fall 
Upon the Souls which else would fail 

To meet the morrow's call, 
When comes its summons to the strife 
And struggle of the Stream of Life. 



One by one the stars are fading 

From life's hemisphere of night; 
And its latest moon, slow-waning. 

Long since quenched its feeble light. 
There, in silence of the darkness. 

Sits the lonely Soul, in gloom. 
Weary, longing, fearful, shrinking, 

Waiting wonderingly its doom. 

"Soul! one truth let Wisdom whisper, 

While the sound thy sense can reach. 
And thy numb perception ponder 

All the lesson she would teach. 
It will nerve tny heart's last pulses 

Through this crucial, dire suspense, 
And the thought, on trusty pinions, 

Bear thy drooping spirit hence. 



46 The Night of Life 

"Listen, Soul! No dawn of morning 

Ever yet thy life has known. 
Noontide ray, or day's declining 

Never yet on thee has shone. 
For, bethink thee, it was evening 

When thou wast to being born, 
Since in process of creation 

Eventide precedes the morn. 

"Yet, when first our eyes we open 

Where the moonbeams blandly play, 
Staring vaguely through the dimness, 

We mistake their light for day. 
Then through life we go pursuing 

Shadows fleeting, visions vain; 
Sorely pressed by apprehensions 

Whicn the sunshine might explain. 

"True, the cheerful stars, in piiy. 

Far above our pathway rise; — 
Hope, ambition, love, and honor 

Bend on us celestial eyes. 
These have brought thee inspiration 

Joy from each thy heart has known; 
Yet, sad Soul, they sank in silence. 

And thou lingerest alone. 

"Still, in death's extreme, remember 

Through its bitterness and chill. 
That not day now nears its ending. 

But thy night of stress and ill: — 
That the moment which thou fearest. 

With its mystery and pain. 
Brings the morrow of thy triumph; 

Turns thy loss to countless gain. 



An Invitation to Tlianksgiving Dinner 47 

"Think what glad surprise of waking 

From life's evanescent dream 
When its types shall find fulfillment 
Realizing all they seem. 
On the morning-star of duty 

Fasten then thy steadfast gaze, 
Till thy growing vision catches 

Life's true day's resplendent rays." 



An ilnuttattfltt tn SIiankBgiutng Sitttt? r 

Come to our festal board today, 

i.iuch valued Friend; 
To scenes where all is bright and gay 

Your presence lend. 

The old, the young, the brave, the fair, 

You there shall meet; 
And each your welcome presence then 

Will gladly greet. 

In fact the absence of such guest 

Would rob our cheer 
Of much that makes this season blest 

To us so dear,* 

For all of those who love thee most 

In this agree, 
That this Day's greatest charm is lost 

If it lack thee. 

♦Expensive. 



48 An Invitation to Thanksgiving Dinner 

Then come, and at our joyous board, 

With wonted grace,t 
Accept what freely we accord — 

An honored place. 

Come, and though Fate in days of yore 

Has been unkind. 
Her malice shall disturb no more 

Thy peace of mind. 

Amidst: thy friends no foe shall dare 

Again molest; 
Nor fill with anxious fear and care 

Thy tender breast. 

Unto our bosoms we will take§ 

Thee, chosen friend; 
And of thy gobble-gobble make 

An utter end. 

And though the cook's well-sharpened darts 

Despoiled thy youth 
We'll take thee to our inmost hearts 
In very truth. 

There as** our life-blood thou shalt be 

Most dearly prized; 
Naught that would win our love from thee 

Could be devised. 

Then to my anxious, longing cry 

Dear bird attend. 

When in hot haste I bid thee fly 

To servett thy friend. 

tBy the clergyman. 
tEncompassed by. §Literally. 
**Being-. itBe served to. 



Please Help the Blind 49 

So to our feast of thankfulness, 

Gobbler, repair; 
And we thy very bones will bless — 

Till tixey are bare. 



They stand on the thronging street corners; 
They sit in the vacant store doors; 
They linger about the church portals; 
Or they wander, perchance, into stores, 
Where a small boy may venture to lead them, 
Benevolent people to find. 
Who are moved by the pitiful legend. 
That labels its bearer as "Blind." 

Now to don a costume that is stylish. 
Not even impostors would dare, 
So the orthodox, wily, blind beggar 
Must be mean and shabby in air. 
With eyes that are doubly unsightly; 
While symptoms of weak, witless mind. 
Will hasten response to his pleading 
That dumbly says: "Please help the Bling." 

But ah! you disconsolate pauper. 
You ask vastly more than you know, 
When you call upon kind-hearted mortals 
To lighten the burden of woe 
That rests on the world's weary shoulders, 
With pressure becoming intense. 
Because of humanity's blindness, 
In senses beyond those of sense. 



50 // He Were He 

For, of the crowds roaming Earth's surface, 
How surely Omniscience would find 
That most, if not all, human beings. 
In one eye, or both, are stone-blind. 
Pride, passion, and ignorance, blending, 
To blind mind and soul, all agree. 
Until we lose Truth, in a darkness 
Blinding most those who choose not to see. 

And oh! what a spectacle startling 
The wondering world would behold, 
If all these deficient wayfarers 
Were labeled in lettering bold! 
To give a small alms to a beggar 
Were easy; but what about these 
Poor dwellers in darkness of spirit? 
Pray, who will help them, if you please? 



M i^t Hrrr i|f 



If He whose coming, in the silent eve. 
My soul doth dread, as in the gloom I lie, 
Straining each sense to sieze the certainty 
It shrinks to meet, yet does not dare to fly: — 

Were He 
At whose approach the purple eventide 
Grows into gold; and on my soul's drear night 
Ever the fresh, glad beam of morning dawns. 
With dewey sweets, and music in its light. 
Ah me! 
If He were He! 



// He Were He 5 1 

If He whose accents, like the dirge of hope, 
Or like the trump of doom, fall on my ear, 
That to escape them would all sounds forego, 
Yet may not, must not, dare not choose but 
hear:^- 

Were He 
Whose low, sweet tones my thirsty spirit drinks, 
Like some rare song of wondrous melody. 
Which the rapt soul that hears, no more would 

bear, 
But when it closes, murmurs, "Let me die." 
Ah me! 
If He were He! 

If he whose touch is to my shrinking form. 
Than serpent's fold more deadly and more chill, 
Stirring my blood in angry agony. 
While I must bid each trembling nerve be 
still: — 

Were He 
Whose kisses melting on my burning brow, 
Or cheek, or lips, with bliss my being thrill, 
And my faint heart refresh, as silent dews 
Their healing balms, o'er the parched earth 
distil. 

Ah me! 
If He were He! 

If He who is my being's blight; my bane; 
Source of my heart's hot tears, and ceaseless 

strife; 
My fear; my bitterness; my fell despair; 
My sum of all life's ills; my death in life: — 
Were He 



52 The Christ Is Born 

Whose love is all I know of peace, or rest, 
Or hope that calms, or joy that comfortetn; 
And all I ask to feel of blessedness: — 
He who is my sole self; my life in death. 
Oh God! 
If He were He! 



®I|0 Ollinst 31a Inrn 

"The Christ is born!" The glad, angelic strain 
Cicled in music o'er Judea's plain; 
And the still heart of starlit silence, stirred 
By the momentum of that wondrous Word, 
Thrilled to its center, trembled, and awoke, 
And all the sacred seals that bound it broke, 
To join the choir of shining seraphs, when 
They sang of Peace on Earth, and Joy to Men. 

"The Christ is born!" To-day the sacred sound 
Has widened to the Earth's remotest bound: 
Through glorious temples, through the courts of 

kings, 
Through homes, and hovels, the glad anthem 

rings. 
From centers bright with culture's raidant light, 
To shades where souls grope through dim men- 
tal night. 
The sound spreads over that mysterious sea 
Whose waves encompass all humanity. 

"The Christ is born!" To simple shepherd-men 
What meant the wonderful announcement then? 
What was betokened to their glad surprise 
By birth that needed heralds from the skies? 



The Christ Is Born 53 

"Behold your Saviour, who is Christ the Lord!" 
Unknown, they owned Him; worshiped and 

adored. 
Yet even the marvelling throngs of Galilee, 
Saw not the mighty Saviour whom we see. 

"The Christ is born!" What mean the words 

today 
To us who echo the exultant lay 
Prom every nation, every land, and clime, 
Back through the ages of advancing time? 
We chant the anthem, carol the refrain, 
Swell the grand chorus of the heaven-taught 

strain, 
And celebrate with festival the morn 
When Christ the Saviour of mankind was born. 

But is the Christ born unto us indeed? 
A heavenly germ our earth born nature's need 
To raise them — as the water turned to wine — 
From Nature's death, to bliss of life divine. 
Have we that Christ-sent spirit from above 
Transfiguring life's gloom with joy and love? 
That nature which the soul of Man allies 
With the blest Natives of the glorious skies? 

The Christ is born to us, indeed, if we 

Partake of His divine humanity. 

If we, for love of God and man, forego 

The claims of Self, and bear each other's woe; 

And, not content alone from earth to rise. 

We help our feebler brethren to the skies. 

Haste, Christmas suns, and bring the blessed 

morn 
When thus the Christ in all our hearts is born! 
Christmas, 1879. 



54 Women Versus Men 



Men, women, all humanity, attend! 

No feeble voice a little woe complains: 
The gathering sighs of many a suffering soul, 
Down all the ages of oppression roll. 
And to the heedless world a warning send. 

In muttering-thunder strains. 

For half a race, since first the world began. 
Of selfish, cruel, fateful might possessed. 
In forced subjection to despotic will, 
A half a race has held; — is holding still: 
This tyranous, usurping half is Man: 
Woman, the "Sex suppressed." 

Man rules the household; moulds..and sways the 
State, 

Enjoys its honors, offices, and pelf: 
Though justice equal rights for each demands, 
He grasps the scepter with his brawny hands; 
Claims the sole right for both to legislate; 

And sinks her in himself. 

Down-trodden women, rise! your wrongs de- 
clare; 
Assert your rights; your equal claims main- 
tain, 
The proud, false monarch of your race dethrone; 
No longer his unjust dominion own: 
Submit no more his galling chains to wear; 
Aspire, instead to reign. 



Women Versus Men 55 

From city, village, mountain, valley, plain, 
The whistling gale brings back the shrill re- 
ply: 
"We rise; we come; with tongue, and tooth, 

and nail, 
Our merciless oppressor to assail : 
The cause of all our wrongs to ascertain ; 
Some remedy to try." 

Heroic souls, the cause— 'tis plain to see, — 

Of man's assumptions, and your state forlorn. 
Lies in ihe grizzled shag upon his face, 
That lends the tyrant such majestic grace: 
Bereft of this, creation's lord would be. 
But a poor Samson shorn. 

And with a beard, all else would woman gain. 

Man's qualities, prerogatives, and place, 
Would be her own, could she cheek, chin, and 

lip, 
With whiskers, beard, moustache, complete, 

equip; 
Could she by any miracle obtain 
This glory on her face. 

Ye can achieve it! Ye whose fertile skill. 

Can on your heads such towering locks erect, 

Can with the arts that to yourselves are known. 

The ingenuity that's all your own. 

And the great might of your resistless will. 
Supply this slight defect. 

But if ye fail in this, no hope remains; 

No more is left for you to do, or dare; 
For Nature's own immutable decree, 



56 Women Versus Men 

Has made the right of government to be, 
In beards inherent, not in muddled brains. 
As sciolists declare. 

Without a beard, of inward force the sign. 
Conventions, projects, suffrage, too, were vain: 

While this reproach remains your doom is 
sealed ; 

The ancient law will never be repealed. 

Which gives to Man alone the right divine. 
Lord over all to reign. 

Perform this prodigy, or count it sin. 
The righteous laws of Nature to despise; 

Dismiss forever your rebellious plans; 

Return to needles, dusters, brooms, and pans; 

And be content in duty's path to win 
The honors fame denies. 

Content to hold o'er hearts your only sway; 

To rear your race to serve their kind, and 
God; 
To cheer and help the weary and the weak; 
Comforts around you to diffuse, and seek 
To walk, with unobtrusive steps, the way 

The perfect One once trod. 

Like Him submission, humbly to obey; 

Like Him to minister to helpless woe; 
All sufferings with patience to endure; 
Yourselves to purify as He is pure; 
That, sacrificing all of self, you may 

Like Him in all things grow. 



I'm a Cripple 57 

She who man's bliss transformed to direst woe, 

By the success of one ambitious plan, 

That primal mischief now may best repair, 

And best her consequent subjection bear, 

By striving ever more and more to grow 

True Woman, not mock Man. 

Cleveland, November 20, 1869. Published in 
the "Herald," during the session of the "National 
TVoman's Rights Convention." 



3l*m a Olnpipb' 



You're a Cripple! So it seems; 
Though within your eye there gleams 
Some suspicion of a ray 
On the game that "cripples" play, 
When their pitiable plight 
They obtrude upon our sight. 
Tricky Cripples! 

Are you crippled? Well suppose 
You are really one of those 
Who have been reduced by Fate 
To this desperate estate. 
What is there about your case. 
Meriting especial grace, 
Mr. Cripple? 

You are crippled? So are we: — 
Mentally, financially. 
And, perhaps, the truth to tell. 
Morally, sometimes, as well, 
We have lost those higher powers, 
That once rightfully were ours. 
Worst of Cripples! 



58 The Difference 

Look around you, Man, and see 
All your crippled company: — 
See the feet, that, fast or slow, 
Will not lead where we would go; 
And the hands that powerless fall, 
When we seek to grasp our all: — 
Hopeless Cripples! 

Paralyzed by coward fears; 
Bent beneath the weight of years; 
Crippled by our weakling wills; 
Maimed by Life's unnumbered ills; 
Hand and foot, and heart and brain, 
Join your pitiful refrain, 

Beggared Cripple! 

Let us, then, endure our fate: 
Time will end it, soon or late. 
Whether without cause for blame, 
Or, as punishment, it came. 
Let us, bearing loss and pains. 
Make the most of what remains: — 
Patient Cripples! 



®I|^ B\([nmtt 



Twin Brothers, have been called the Sleeps of 
Life 
And Death: So like in seeming, form, and 

guise. 
That each of each is counterpart, and might 
His absent Brother personate. And yet 
So wide the difference between the Two — 



The Difference 59 

Such their disparity of mein and state. 
Their natures so opponent and diverse, — 
That even real semblance they have none. 
In Sleep, the Soul within its tenement 
Of rudely-tempered or refined clay. 
Apart retires. Closes each avenue, 
Each gate, and door, and portal from without; 
Calls in the very watch-dogs; and draws down 
Each curtain that prevents a gaze within. 
And all without is blank, and bare, and still; 
With only breath ascending, — like the smoke 
Of lonely farm-house, — to give any sign 
Or token of an occupant within. 

And yet, behind the walls the fires still burn. 
And though the lamp of Reason dimly gleams. 
The household duties in their due routine 
Are all performed; and in their wonted course 
The household servitors pursue their ways. 
In dumb obedience to the laws of Life, 
Until the Master once again comes forth, 
And bids the halls be opened to the light. 
And sends his powers abroad to meet the day. 
Whereas, at Death the Mansion's Inmate 

yieJds 
A quit-claim of his right to the estate; 
Relinguishes his lease of the domain: 
By ways unseen, dismisses every guest. 
And all the faithful servants of his will 
Who lived to do his bidding. Then the fires 
Are all extinguished, and the lights turned out; 
And the mysterious Soul locks, bolts, and bars 
The Dwelling's every entrance; renders to 

Death this key — 



60 The Sentinel of the Ages 

Forsakes the premises he once called "home," 
And takes his journey whither no one knows. 

Then all the chambers which the Living Self 
Had once inhabited; wherein it roamed, 
And wrought or rested as beseemed it best; 
The brilliant halls where mirth and song had oft 
Resounded, and grave Thought sometimes dis- 
coursed 
With eloquence resistless; and anon 
Some passon or emotion ruled the hour. 
Are desolate and silent: nothing stirs 
Within their precincts; only dust and mould 
Accumulate; the bloom and freshness fade 
From scenes they once adorned; like the bright 

hues 
Of summer sunset clouds on mountain heights. 
Their beauty vanishes. And all too soon 
Crumble the solid walls, and in decay 
And ruins the once glorious fabric falls. 



Under shining, under shadow, 

At the gates of every land, 
All adown the lengthening ages. 

Men have seen a Sentry stand; 
Looming grandly on the beauty 

Of the blue day's crystal light. 
Then anon, in darkness blending 

With the mystery of night; 
While his meditations linger 

Over glories that are past, 



The Sentinel of the Ages 61 

And his keen prophetic vision 
Sees the good to come, at last. 

At the portals of some nations, 

We behold him, as he stands 
Pale and haggard, weak and weary, 

With his grey head in his hands, 
Bowed in retrospective sorrow, 

For the infamy and scorn, 
For the ages of oppression 

By his people meekly borne; 
Till his features are transfigured 

In a blaze of wrath divine, 
And his glassy eyes brim over 

With their bitter burning wine. 

At another gate we see him, 

In the vigor of full prime 
Mounted on a stalwart courser, 

For some charge or quest sublime: 
Be it to go forth to battle. 

In a cause of righteous strife. 
Winning liberty, or glory. 

With the purchase of his life. 
Or, at least, to gain his guerdon. 

And be named among the great. 
By the aid of wealth's distinction, 

Or some service to the State. 

Otherwhere, we see him, seated 

Underneath the arches vast 
Of some old arcade, surrounded 

With the records of the past. 



62 The Sentinel of the Ages 

Over ancient tomes he ponders, 

Filled with figures rude and strange, 
Yet their contents he deciphers 

Through Time's labyrinthine range; 
Then to poesy he turneth 

And in numbers sweet recites; 
Or he wakes the soul of music 

In the harp whose chords he smites. 

Once again we see him, crouching 

On a devastated strand, 
Silent as the Sphinx of Egypt 

Billowed in its surging sand, 
For the lash of persecution, 

Heedless of all human right 
Fell upon him, watching, waiting, 

Till he sank beneath its might. 
And he lies there, bruised and bleeding 

But a brave old hero still, 
Hoping for his destined future, 

When his Fate has wrought its will. 

Nations, do you know this Sentry, 

Keeping guard, for ages long, 
Over learning, arts, religion, 

Through all cruelty and wrong? 
Patient under dire oppression. 

While the iron pierced his soul; 
With no armor for protection; 

With no weapon but a Scroll — 
His one treasure; hear him crying, 

"Though I die, let this be true!" 
Is not his the voice of Jacob? 

Yes! it is — it is — the Jew! 



The Sentinel of the Ages 63 

Say you that his crime demanded 

Punishment from God and men? 
Nay! With God alone be vengeance: 

He is merciful. But when 
Man metes out his ruthless judgments, 

With a mad presumption blind, 
He wreaks cruelties of demons 

On the weaker of his kind. 
It is not for his defection 

That the Jew has met the sword: 
Christians slay their fellow-Christians, 

In the name of their own Lord. 

Has he sinned — this Jew immortal? 

Ay; but he is not alone: 
Christ is crucified forever 

In the House He calls His own. 
Multitudes bow down before Him 

And profess to own his sway. 
While their hearts are filled with idols. 

And they, Judas-like, betray 
Him who comes as their Messiah, 

And their fealty would claim; 
But they pierce His soul with sorrows, 

Shouting praises to His name. 

Sinned the Jew? Well; he has suffered. 

When he saw his judgment come 
He bowed meekly to his sentence 

Like the shorn lamb, he was dumb: 
Bearing shame, contempt, revilings. 

Grief and anguish, pain and death; 
Only saying: "God is holy: 



64 The Sentinel of the Ages 

He is One," with latest breath. 
Like to Christ, in his submission 

He has met a martyr's fate; 
But his resurrection cometh; 

Though it can tarry, he can wait. 

Yea! Already we perceive him, 

Rising up on every hand; 
Gliding into power and station, 

With the world's wealth at command. 
In the forum, in the senate, 

Lo! he wins immortal fame. 
Halls of learning, marts of commerce, 

Ring with echoes of his name. 
On each plane of high endeavor 

He is foremost in the strife 
Culling everlasting laurels 

From the battlefields of Life. 

So God's ancient, chosen people 

As His Sentinel still stands 
With the standard of Jehovah 

In his strong, uplifted hands; 
With his jewelled breastplate gleaming 

On his proudly heaving chest; 
And a lamp forever burning, 

On his helmet's lofty crest: 
While he welcomes the down-trodden 

To his hospitable shores, 
And in streams of richest bounty 

Blessings on his breathren pours. 



Tekos—( The Tramp) 65 

Standing thus, as great exemplar 

To the world, the Jew appears: 
Bringing hope, as well as warning. 

To Humanity's late years. 
Showing how, as King, God ruleth, 

When mankind would test His sway, 
Yet is tender as a Father, 

When, as children, they obey. 
Prophet, statesman, warrior, scholar, 

Israel's glories shall increase, 
When he claims his royal birthright; 

Brother to the Prince of Peace. 



0^ko0— (®I|? Qlramp) 

Dig me a grave! 
Go now! 
In grassy shadows by some gentle stream 
Whose cadenced voice shall soothe my endless 

dream 
And where the water-willow's golden bough 
O'er it may wave, 
Go, dig my grave. 

And dig it deep; 
That so 
The weight of earth upon my heaving breast 
Shall crush its throbbing pulse at last to rest; 
Then to the blest retreat I'll gladly go; 

Into it creep 

And try to sleep. 



66 Tekos—(The Tramp) 

Go quickly! Why 
Delay? 
When no more use upon the earth is found 
For such as I, why cumber we the ground 
Through the long hours of a single day? 

Then such as I 

Can only die. 

Who owns this World? 
Not God. 
He made the lovely earth, 'tis said, and then 
Bestowed the wondrous gift on mortal men. 
But some men's portion dwindles to a sod : 

The men by birth, — 

And not in worth. 

But this methinks 
I must 
Instinctively believe — though there can be 
No spark of hope, in any faith, for me, — 
That if he had not cast the earth away 

Given up His right 

To the dear light, 

He would be kind 
Nor so 
For lack of food and shelter crowd me, weak. 
And helpless, from the world, to seek 
In the dark earth to hide and end my woe. 

And refuge find 

For my dark mind. 



An Invitation 67 

Were I man's hound 
Or horse 
Not thus would I be left in wretchedness, 
Full fed, well-tended, sheltered, valued, blest. 
Exultant, I would run my happy course 

Nor sink from sound 

Into the ground. 

Oh! but to be 
A beast 
A fierce, wild creature with courageous blood 
Roaming the forest, stemming the dark flood 
Daily at Nature's ample board to feast 

And still to be 

Wild, strong, and free. 

"Once I had wealth?" . 
Oh Yes! 
And that I squandered it your blame 
Writes an eternity of shame. 
I grant you my whole life is senselessness 

But whose the crime 

I do not guess. 



Att 31nuttatt0n 

'Tis said by those who are inclined 

To undervalue womankind 

That no amount of wit and learning 

Avails a Woman for discerning 

The Spirit of a Joke; nor can she tell 

Its story, though she knows it very well. 



68 Prayer 

So, that we may this charge repel, 

And prove that we good Jokes can tell, 

You are respectfully invited 

To come and see this great wrong righted; 

In order whereunto, please bring with you 

A Joke to tell, and prove the charge untrue. 



My Master! My Master, pray come along with 

me 
Don't think thou art leading me 

Tis I leading thee. 
I get thee thy pennies, thou owest me thy pelf. 
And besides and moreover, I have given thee 

thyself. 

For back in the ages, before Man became 
I was his ancestor born without a name, 
Monkeydom developed all the deeds that thou 

hast done. 
For I am Grandfather, and thou my grandson! 



i^rapr 



As the Musselman's Rug, while he sayeth his 

prayer, 
Is fabled to carry him off through the air. 
So from our Church-carpet our prayers shall 

arise. 
And our heartfelt petition soar up to the skies. 



The "Judge's" Case 69 

Maud Muller — so the story goes — 

In a shabby hat, and ragged clothes, 

For some old farmer raked the hay. 

In the broiling sun, through the livelong day. 

She would rather "work out" she often said 

Than wash the dishes and bake the bread. 

She sang as she worked, and she wondered 

when 
The farmer's "hand," "that awkward Ben, 
Would sidle up again like a fool" 
To walk with her home from singing school. 

And a certain judge who lived in town — 
So the story says — came riding down, 
And seeing the girl beside the brook 
Considered her worthy a second look; 
And so without pausing a moment to think, 
He drew in his bridle, and asked for a drink. 
And Maud got the cup that was used by her Ben 
And all the rest of the unwashed men. 

Now the judge was as neat as neat couid be 
For a most fastidious man was he, 
His dress and person in all details 
To the tips of his shapely finger nails 
Were perfectly kept, and daintily graced 
With the scrupulous care of a faultless taste. 
Of course the judge thanked her — What else 

could he do 
Though he wished she had rinsed out the cup 

it is true. 



70 Pellegrina Rondinella 

(The following is a translation of a little- 
Italian poem written by Tommaso Grossi.) 

Wandering swallow, 
Who in soft strain 
Daily reneweth 

Thy mournful refrain, 
Wherefore, oh swallow 
Dost thou camplain? 

Art thou forsaken? 
Has thy mate flown? 
Like me, in sorrow 

Art thou alone? 
Weep on, then, swallow, 
Desolate one! 

Yet thou hast some solace; 
The lake thou mayst skim; 
Or, soaring, encircle 

The mountain peaks dim; 
All day long, swallow, 
Calling to him. 

In durance I languish; 
These walls deny me 
The sunlight, and even 

The breath of the free: 
Scarce my moan reaches. 
Swallow, to thee. 

Soon with the summer 
Thou wilt take flight; 
Distant lands greeting 



Bereaved 71 



Whose waters of light, 
And verdant hills, swallow, 
Gladden the sight. 

While I still awaking 
To new tears each morn, 
Shall hear on the bleak winds 

Thy tender notes borne, 
As 'mid the snows, swallow, 
I linger forlorn. 

A cross o'er my ashes 
Will rise in the Spring; 
On it at evening 

Folding thy wing. 
Sing to me, swallow, 
Peace to me sing. 



My Beautiful Boy? Oh no! 

It is absolute madness to lose him so. 

My son must stay. 

Till the end of my day, 

My Life's one joy, 

My glorious Boy! 

My heart could never be reconciled 

To the final loss of my only child! 

So often have I felt such blows before 

That now my stricken spirit can endure no 

more: 
And yet this shaft has sped; 
My Boy is dead! dead! dead! 



72 The River-King 

Tempt not the mystic spell which lies 
In waves that roll, swift-murmuring 
To meet the sea; they softly sing 
And to their fitful shadows bring 
Whom e'er they will, nor heed those left 
Forever, lonely and bereft. 

Where flows the sunlit river by, 
Grown weary with the day's demands 
I bent, one evening, on the sands 
To cool my brow and tired hands. 
And watch the far-off ripples run 
Where sea and river melt in one. 

My little boy knelt by my side 
And, baby-fashion, laughed to see 
The wavelets curl about his knee, 
That ringing laugh of childish glee! 
In all sweet sounds it lives again, 
And stirs my heart to deeper pain. 

I wove a wreath of slender ferns 
And laid it on his shining head. 
"I crown thee River-King," I said. 
(The gold that lights the ocean's bed 
Is not more bright than was his hair — 
Earth held no child than he more fair.) 

And then along the level shore 

I went, the boy upon my breast. 

His dimpled cheek to mine close-pressed. 

In long slant rays, from furthest west, 



The River-King 73 

The great red sun, slow dropping down 
With jewels lit the dewy crown. 

And when the early twilight fell, 
And landward from the shadowed sea 
Its mighty voices came to me 
Deep fraught with solemn mystery, 
I wooed, with drowsy lullabies, 
Soft slumber to his dreamful eyes. 

The meaning of the whispered calls 
And signals dim, or flashing white, 
Was hidden from my clouded sight! 
I saw the slumberous eyes grow bright 
With sudden joy, and clear and wide 
Look down upon the restless tide. 

I saw, but could not read the signs! 
The beckoning hands but seemed to me 
Pale mists in-creeping from the sea; 
Or laughing waves, that in their glee 
Came dancing up the glistening sand 
To toss their spray upon the land. 

But never warning came that he 
Whose light heart beat against my own. 
Before the morrow would be gone 
Forever from me; that, alone 
And hopeless, I must pace the shore. 
And, save in dreams, should feel no more 

The tender touch of baby lips — 

No thought that I must mourn the day 

When on my boy's bright tresses lay 



74 Hope Embalmed 

The fatal crown, and weeping say: 

"The words I spake in idle jest 

Have robbed my life of joy and rest!" 

When summer days are clear and warm. 
Par down, beneath the water's glare. 
With love too faithful for despair, 
I watch the gleam of shining hair 
Swift glancing by, with golden light, 
And passing ever from my sight. 

I left him once with good-night kiss; 
But now, when darkening waters swell 
Upon the strand, I cry, "Farewell!" 
And listening catch the far sweet knell 
That sounds in faintest melody. 
An answer from the distant sea. 



i|op0 iEmbalttifb 



Encased within the Amber's hold," 
As though in pale, transparent gold, 

A hapless insect died; 
Beating, from pearly wings, the scales 
Whose cloud-like stream beneath it trails, 
Caught by the solid tide. 

So, too, a Hope, once soared, elate, 
And met by overwhelming Pate, 

Died, struggling with Despair: 
And Memory, when ceased its pain, — 
With vain Regrets in dusky train, — 

Embalmed it, changeless, there. 

Respectfully dedicated to the New York Micro- 
scopical Society. 
July S, 1895. 



The Coming Men 7S 

®l|? ^nming Mm 

Grave, and wise, and potent Seniors, 
Busy with your plans and cares, 
Pause, and listen to the echoes 
Floating by you unawares. 
Like the rush of mighty surges, 
A.S on distant sands they beat, 
Sounds the tramping, tramping, tramping. 
Of the swift, unresting feet 
Of the Nation's future Men: 
Countless and resistless legions 
Of the Coming Men. 

Oh ye weary, toiling millions, 
Ye shall lay your burdens down. 
Ye must leave your priceless treasures 
Who have won ambition's crown. 
And the coming men will labor 
With a new and matchless might. 
Working never heard of wonders, 
Gaining heights of glory bright 
With the clear light shining then, 
Strong, and brave, and fresh, and eager, 
Are the Coming Men. 

They will take your places, Soldiers, 
Marching o'er the battle plain; 
They will sail your ships, oh Sailors, 
To and fro upon the main. 
Rulers, statesmen, poets, heroes. 
All your laurels they will claim, 
And, alas, ye evil-doers, 



76 What Do They Think? 

Some will also share your shame. 
Hark! the echoes swell again; 
Growing louder still as nearer 
Press the Coming Men. 



at §0 ®I|pg ®l|mk? 

When the first sunbeams in summer, 

Pour through every chink 
Crack and crevice of the stable 
Waking from their comfortable 
Slumbers all the stout car horses 

Pray what do they think? 

Do they dread the dreary labors 

Of the coming day? 
Are they lost in computations 
Of the numerous vexations 
And the miles of toilsome travel 

That before them lay? 

And amid the wild commotion 

Of the busy street, 
Slaving through the din and bustle 
Panting in each nerve and muscle 
Stifled with the yellow dust cloud 

Reeking with the heat. 

Do they think with fruitless longings 

Of the happy hours 
When their view of life was bounded 
By the fences that surrounded 
Meadows where they cropped contented 

Dewy grass and flowers? 



The Last Amen 77 

®I|f ffiast Atttftt 

Ah! yes! There was music entrancing, 

Full of echoes from heaven it seemed; 
With incense like breathing of angels; 

While as calm glowing stars softly beamed 
The lights from the columns and arches 

And the blossoming altar: and when 
Fell the balm of the priest's benediction 

There rolled back a full wave of "Amen!' 

Then vanished the saintly procession, 

In its splendor of red, white and gold; 
And the dense, surging sea of the people 

Ebbed away. And then silent and cold, 
As the lights, one by one, were extinguished, 

Slowly waving their wings on the air, 
Crept the ghosts of man's sins and his sorrows, 

Who are laid by no magic but prayer. 

Yet there lingered one desolate figure, 

Lowly kneeling before the great shrine, 
Where the red taper ceaselessly burning 

Points the soul to the life-spark divine: — 
Alone with its pain or its penance, 

And the shades of the pillars, in gloom 
Like a forest, at midnight, in winter, 

Keeping guard at the gates of a tomb. 

So a Heart, in life's temple, remaineth, 
All alone when life's service is o'er, 

And the lights, and the incense, and music 
Its weak pulses can quicken no more. 



78 In the Manger 

But at last comes the peace of submission: — 
"Now I go," says the Heart, "and what then?" 

"Let us pray!" breathes a Voice, from the dark- 
ness : 
And the failing Heart falters — "Amen!" 



3tt X\\^ manger 



Old Egypt's priests to Apis bowed, 
A sable beast, their type of God; 
And Egypt's people, bruitsh crowd 
At fast and feast 
Worshipped the Beast, 
And trembled at a bullock s nod. 
For so did Memphian darkness shroud 
That ancient land with baleful cloud. 

Assyria, in monstrous guise. 

The blendid shapes of beasts and men, 

Reveals her gods to mortal eyes. 

Chaldea's store 

Of starry lore, 
The wisdom of her wisest, then 
Could find no fitter forms than these 
To symbolize her deities. 

In Bethlehem, one solemn night 

The cattle in their stable stood, 

Where morning's dawn disclosed to sight 

A Babe divine 

Of royal line. 
The fruit of virgin motherhood, 
That in the oxen's manger lay 
On that our primal Christmas Day. 



Who Knows Why? 79 

To Miss Bright 

Bright though thy life has ever been, fair 
Maiden 
And though we trust that peace, and hope, 
and light, 
May cheer thy heart however sorrow-laden, 

It travels onwards to life's peaceful night: 
Yet it is doubtful, whether in our blindness, 

It would be wise, considerate, or right. 
Or showing you a particle of kindness 

To wish that Fate may keep you — always — 
"Bright." 



1I1|0 IKnnma Wl^^? 

Ned is nothing but a Baby: 
Who can tell the reason why 
Though his curly head is golden. 
And he has a bright blue eye, 
Ned has neither wit nor wisdom, 
And can only laugh and cry. 

Now a horse is strong, and carries 
Heavy burdens, with all ease. 
And the hound runs very swiftly. 
While birds fly among the trees. 
But if anybody knows it, 
Let him tell us if you please, 
Why Ned should not be able 
To do such things as these. 



80 The Viking's Burial 

J&\\t Hiking s lurtar 

The ship of the Viking lay moored to the shore, 
Awaiting the Master, whose prowess of yore. 
Had carved with its keel his dread pathway of 

war. 
But the Viking, henceforth, shall command it 

no more. 

It rocked, all day long, on the swell of the tide; 
Now dipping its prow, and now laving its side: 
While men came and went, and strange tasks in 

it plied; 
Then left it alone, still at anchor to ride. 

Meanwhile the pale sun through the heavens 

slid down; 
The craggy cliffs beetled, with ominous frown; 
And, from the huge grave of a chief of renown, 
Crept shadows, like ghosts which the sea could 

not drown. 

In a daring foray had this Chieftain been slain: 

And a hollow was scooped in the sand of the 
plain, 

Where, packed in his vessel, this King of the 
Main, 

'Neath a vast mound of earth, had for cen- 
turies lain. 

*The funeral of a Viking cliief was a barbaric 
ceremony. A slight excavation was made on the 
coast, into which his ship was lowered. The 
prow turned seaward. A sepulchral cabin was 
prepared in the center, and the body, lying on 
a sledge, decked in state attire, ornaments and 
full panolpy of arms, was then introduced, and 
the opening closed with layers of birch bark; 
all other personal possessions were laid in other 
parts of the gigantic cofRn, which was packed 



The Viking's Burial 81 

The mists from the waters now shrouded the 

sun; 
And to the beach came, from afar, one by one, 
A throng who awaited some deed to be done; 
In awe, yet impatient to have it begun. 

Then down the steep hillside a slow train drew 

near, 
With moanings and wailings, most grevious to 

hear. 
And foremost was carried a Form, on a Bier; 
While well-loaded sledges brought up the long 

rear. 

The vessel was reached; the dead Viking ar- 
rayed 

In splendor barbaric, within it was laid; 

In panoply full, for the fight to be made 

With the ghosts that would drive from Valhalla 
his Shade. 



to the top with moss and blue clay, which is 
said to be a peculiarly good preservative against 
decay. His horses and dogs were killed and 
placed against the sides, and finally earth piled 
over all in form of a lofty mound. This was 
done very near the shore, so that even after 
death the shadow of the sea-rover might frown 
upon his chosen element. Occassionally, how- 
ever, the vessel and its owner were burned to- 
gether to the water's edge. A tradition has 
come down concerning one of those dauntless 
warriors that when he felt the hand of death 
upon him he ordered his ship to be filled with 
combustible material and ignited, the sail set 
seaward, and there, alone upon his funeral 
pyre, the spray of ocean for his chrism, the 
winds his ministers, his unconquered spirit fled 
to the Valhalla of his faith. — "Norway Nights 
and Prussian Days." by g. M. Henry Davis, 1887. 



82 The Viking's Burial 

Around him thus lying in state, grimly graced, 
His treasured possessions in order were placed: 
His weapons of warfare; his shields rudely 

traced; 
And all the rare stores that his trophies em- 
braced. 

His dogs and his horses, though slaughtered 

and stark, 
Were shipped as aforetime the beasts in the 

Ark. 
Then the vessel was packed full of mosses and 

bark, 
And with sail setting seaward, swung round, in 

the dark. 

A thrill through it ran, for one moment of fear; 
Then a breeze filled the sail, and without lurch 

or veer, 
It sprang on its course, with the leap of a deer: 
Though with none to command it; nor pilot to 

steer. 

Then down through the air, from a rock's jut- 
ting height, 

Sped a burning torch, hurled by stern muscles 
of might. 

It fell on the deck; set the mosses alight; 

And the pyre funeral flamed on the night. 

For the last dying words the old Viking had 

said. 
Were to order that thus, when his bold spirit 

fled, 
In the depths of the sea, should be pillowed 

his head, 
And the ocean he loved, be forever his bed. 



The Months of the Year 83 

©If? iiiintl|a nf tl|? fear 

January 

Facing two ways alike, in doubt, I stand, 

And in both ways, at once, I fain would go: 
For Memory, with soft detaining hand. 

Recalls me to the Past. But Hope cries, "No! 
You may no longer linger. I command 

The progress of the Future." Even so, 
With longing gaze fixed on a fading land, 

I follow Hope, with footsteps weak and slow. 

3Fpbr«ary 

Now February breaks the icy chains 
Wherewith the Winter's tyranny had bound 
him; 

And with impetuous winds, and reckless 
rains, 
He rolls his devastating floods around him. 

So, too, the Champions of Freedom's cause, 
With wild reforms, and ill-advised lustrations, 

May, by destroying good, with evil, laws. 
Imperil the great destinies of Nations. 

Marrli 

Old March was a Savage, all grizzled and grim, 
For stormy and bitter had Life been to him. 
On the cold barren Earth, in his infancy cast. 
He had struggled, alone, with each blustering 

blast; 
Until came the sunshine of Truth, from above. 
And melted his Spirit to patience and love. 
Then his leonine Soul became lamb-like and 

mild, 
And the reasoning Man had the heart of a Child. 



84 The Months of the Year 

April 

When April comes, the dormant Earth 
Wakes to a new creation's birth, 
She sends the green waves up the hills, 
Whence silver streams roll down their rills,' 
Her call brings beasts, and birds, and bees, 
Swarming to life, from fields and trees. 
Earth must the fabled Phoenix be 
To yield this yearly Mystery. 

A bright blue bird, from the bending skies, 

May flutters on cloudy wings; 
The light of the dawn in her shining eyes; 

Her soul in the song she sings. 
She scatters the dews from her outspread 
wings; 

And blossoms from heaven above. 
Wide over the waiting world she flings. 

For May is the Heart of Love. 
Jfunt 
A radiant Maid from Paradise, 

Who earthward wills to stray. 
Holds yearly court in woodland wilds. 

Lured by the songs of May. 
She brings us Beauty's very Self; 

She sets our Souls atune; 
And at her rose-gemmed Throne we fall 

Entranced, and worship June. 

JIulg 

Mother of Bounties! Dame July! 
Thy treasuries our wants supply. 



The Months of the Year 85 

What harvests deck thy golden fields! 

What gracious fruits thy culture yields! 
What joyous days thy ministries provide, 
To cheer Life's journeys, over hill and tide. 
To render thee their grateful thanks for these. 
Thy happy children cluster at thy knees. 

August 

The Months, as other Maidens do, 

Sometimes don strange disguises: 
So August to a Mermaid turned, 

As one of her surprises. 
She said the land would stifle her: 

She loved the deep sea-reaches. 
And then she dived and swam away: — 

And now she haunts the Beaches! 

Btpttmbtr 

September pale, in hazy veil, 
And misty mantle, dimly shrouded. 

By winding rills, climbs terraced hills 
With opal light half over-clouded ; 

Where she explores her vineyards' stores. 
With potent purple clusters gleaming. — 

All day she sips the grapes' sweet lips; 
And then beneath the stars lies dreaming. 

Wttabtv 

October, brilliant, mountain-born. 
Cottage or Castle could adorn. 
With buoyant steps the gladsome morn he 
meets. 

Each crag the music of his horn repeats. 



86 The Months of the Year 

He hunts and fishes; scales the cliff's steep 

sides. 
And braves the dangers of the foaming tides. 
Then, the day done, beneath the full-orbed 

moon. 
He strikes his lute, and softly sings — to June. 

Tearful November wanders, shivering. 
Before the storm, from out a dismal Past, 
And sees, with every heartstring quivering. 
Her treasures swept, like leaves, before the 

blast. 
Through time untold, the sport of adverse Fate, 
She seeks Life's shores, where, spent and deso- 
late. 
She sinks upon the sands, at close of day; — 
And breakers bear her lifeless Form away. 

IBtttmbtr 

His brow serene, crowned with a wreath of 
snow, 
December waits, to his long home to go. 
In cheerful labqrs has his life been spent: — 

Or, if he erred, he hastened to repent 
Throughout the world, from east to glowing 
west, 
His festive gifts both great and small have 
blest. 
And when his gentle breath, on Earth, shall 
cease. 
Like a pure snow-flake, it will fall as Peace! 



Mud- Sill Melodies 82" 

31)0 Mrttze from tl)e (Suttrr 

Among the sad scenes of the city 

Betokening misery dire, 
None moves our disgust or our pity 

Much more than the wretch in the mire. 
What a picture for painter or poet; 

What a text for the clergy to con; 
What a point for the sapient statesman 

To base legislation upon, 
Is this product of civilization 
Prophetic of worse degradation: 
This outcast, in wretchedness utter, 
Reposing, dead drunk in the gutter! 

The small boy stands by, early learning 

A lesson in life's wicked lore; 
Some woman, with pause of sad yearning, 

The form of lost manhood scans o'er. 
Then gathers the rabble around him, 

As ever blood particles run 
To a wound or a bruise of the body 

When physical mischief is done: 
Such a crowd being but a congestion, 
That proves beyond cavil or question, 
How the pulse of Humanity flutters 
Round the ulcerous souls in its gutters. 

But the Priest and the Levite pass by him; 

And no good Samaritan comes. 
And then the policemen espy him. 

For they are out gunning for bums. 



88 Mud-Sill Melodies 

The whole of their scant ammunition, — 
Which is quite insufficient, be sure, — 
Not being great pounds of prevention. 

But sundry small ounces of cure. 
And they hustle him off, 'mid the laughing 
Of hoodlums who goad him with chaffing, 
Till the wretch incoherently mutters: 
"Yesh! drunk on the breeze from the gutters!' 

That he never had father or mother, 

Of course common reason affirms; 
Nor kindred to claim him as brother; — 

In the ethical sense of the terms. 
He is but the one sheep of a hundred. 

That, perhaps, has been fleeced of its gold 
A black one, all mangy, gone straying 

Prom Reverend Somebody's fold. 
But to be folded now at the Station, 
In horrible, dark isolation, 
Unless some kind angel shall flutter 
White wings over mud from the gutter. 

But ah! other gutters are teeming: 

And some of the foul ones seem nice; 
For perfumes delicious are streaming 

From gay, gilded gutters of vice. 
In halls of luxurious splendor 

Pollution and pestilence breed: 
And dissolute children begotten 

Of deadly corruption and greed, 
With the mists up the mountain ascending. 
And the pure breath of ocean, are blending, 
Under cover of Fashion's gay flutter, 
The breezes that reek of the gutter. 



Mud- Sill Melodies 89 

O Beauty, in satins and laces, 

Sweet Siren, who lures to destroy, 
O charmer, endowed with all graces. 

What arts to ensnare you employ! 
In the souls of your victims you fasten 

Your cruelly venomous fangs. 
And poison their lives with no pity 

For any heart's consequent pangs. 
You madden, intoxicate, deaden, 
The creatures with consciences leaden. 
Who quaff, to delirium utter, 
The breezes that sweep from your gutter. 

When faculties fine are degraded. 

And talents thrown madly away 
For basest of appetites jaded. 

Who could lower levels essay? 
And when sheep go astray in high places — 

Society's mountains of Sin, 
Whose sides are deep-seamed with the gullies 

That torrents of vice have cut in — 
Lost manhood, in such lofty station. 
Needs more than the slum's condemnation; 
For the one place of obloquy utter 
Is the trough of Society's gutter. 



A Ualrtttinr 



Would you of Life the utmost make. 
And those fine symphonies awake 
Which mind and muscle well combine. 
Then, for your "Understanding's" sake. 
With cautious prudence, wisely take 
Saint Crispin for your Valentine. 



90 Mud- Sill Melodies 

Sl|r ^rij of lijr (Harbetane Sabjj 
"O Mother, clear Mother, I'm frantic; 

Your music has never beguiled 
The hours of desperate anguish 

That make up the life of your child. 
But, contrariwise, it has deadened 

The pulses of infancy gay, 
And all the bright visions of childhood 

It has chased from my fancy away. 

"For here, covered close on your bosom. 

From morning till nightfall I lie. 
With scarcely a glimpse of the sunshine, 

Or a glance at the crowd going by: 
While you grind away at your organ, 

And make the old fiend pent within 
Add the shriek of his terrible tortures 

To the streets unendurable din. 

"With polkas and waltzes I'm giddy; 

The schottisches make my head swim ; 
And I feel unaccountably wicked 

When I hear any pious old hymn. 
In the Sweet Bye and Bye, if such music 

Is played on the Beautiful Shore, 
I'll not steer for the heavenly regions, 

When the grinding of Life's tune is o'er 

•'I hate the gay Star Spangled Banner, 
Though I really can not say why: 

And I wish the far-famed Swanee river 
Would run itself utterly dry. 



Mud- Sill Melodies 91 

While as for the maidens and lovers 

Wliose cases are all so forlorn, 
And that Jo, with his small Annie Rooney, 

I wish they had never been born! 

"Must Washington's March be eternal? 

And Bonaparte's Alps ever rise 
Till over their towering summits 

He crosses them into the skies? 
Will Grandfather's Clock be kept running, 

Regardless of gladness or gloom, 
Till the strains of the last Hail Columbia 

Salute the dread hour of doom? 

"There! Don't play Sweet Home, I beseech you! 

It drives me ferociously wild, 
When I am a poor curbstone baby, 

A homeless, wee vagabond child. 
Pray, Mother dear, how did it happen. 

That we are not people at all, 
But just clay like the bricks of the pavement, 

Or stones, like the blocks in the wall? 

"Look, Mother! Just look at the children. 

In laces and ribbons so fine. 
Like beautiful quaint little ladies: 

Then, see the poor rags that are mine! 
And there is that dear, dainty baby, 

Rolled along, every day, by the maid; 
While I, in your arm of cast-iron. 

Shall smother to death, I'm afraid. 

"Please, Mother, do get me a buggy, 
And trundle me out to the Park; 



92 Mud- Sill Melodies 

In the glorious sunshine, remember 
Not when we go home, after dark. 

Lay me down there 'mid grasses and flowers, 
To roll about just as I will, 

That my paralyzed limbs may recover 
From lying, such ages, so still. 

"Oh! if we but had a home proper, 

Where you could do sewing, and cook, 
And I have a precious doll-baby, 

A cradle, and bright picture book, 
How lovely would life be before us, 

Though ever so humble our home: 
And how much more seemly, and Christian, 

Than thus, as poor vagrants, to roam! 

"Why is it we can not be human? 

Why must you sit grinding, all day. 
Like a senseless mechanical figure. 

Your wild, curbstone music, I pray? 
While here in your lean, withered bosom. 

Whose fountain has long been quite dry, 
Close-swathed in your old, faded mantle, 

A brown weasened mummy am I. 

"Why mother! you seem. to be crying: 

Your tears splash upon me like rain. 
If my moanings make you so unhappy 

Your baby no more shall complain. 
As through my whole pitiful lifetime 

I've been good and quiet before, 
Hereafter stone-still as a statue, 

I'll lie in your arms, evermore. 



Peace on Earth 93 

" 'Tis not all for myself, though, nor chiefly 

About my own fate, that I care, 
While you sit here grinding your life out. 

Benumbed in your silent despair. 
And when I can see that your music 

Makes you no less wretched than I, 
I wish there were some tune invented 

Sad enough to make both of us die. 

"But I can not endure it much longer; 

I'm growing so feeble and thin 
That scarcely a pulse is left beating 

My fluttering bosom within. 
So — some day — there'll be a small inquest; 

And then the wise coroner's art, 
Will find that your maddening music 

Has broken your poor Baby's heart." 



P^ar? 0n iEarJi| 



Then were the Angels glad, that blessed 
night, — 
To men most blessed of all nights whose stars 
Have ever trembled o'er our fallen race, — 
When, watching from their stations in the sky, 
Over beloved Zion, and the town 
Of Jesse's royal Son, the mandate came 
From Him who ruleth the whole universe. 
From central heart to last circumference: 
"Ye Messengers of Mercy, haste away, 
Glad tidings of great joy proclaim to Men; 
Go to Judea's darkened plains, and cry 
With 'Gloria in Excelsis,' 'Peace on Earth.' " 



94 Peace on Earth 

Glad, though perchance amazed, the heavenly 
Ones 
Sped on .their mission to the war-worn world, 
Now pausing midst its centuries of strife; 
Nor stayed they in their course upon the heights 
Of those fair mountains which like walls en- 
closed 
Holy Jerusalem, to shine, and shout 
Their gladsome tidings through the silent night. 
And stir the pulses of a slumbering world; 
But, swift, descended to the lowly plains 
Where fleecy flocks were folded, and their watch 
The shepherds kept, amid the dewy gloom 
And solemn calm of Ephrath's storied fields. 

There blazed the splendors of the angelic 
host. 
Flooding with radiance all the night serene. 
As in celestial symphony they sang. 
Now soft, and swe'et, and low; now in a strain 
Majestic and exultant,, full and strong, 
And in harmonious cadence echoing. 
The wondrous Anthem, written in the skies. 
And breathing benison of Love divine; 
Glory to God on high, and Peace to Men; 
In highest Heaven now let God be praised. 
For Peace, long exiled from terrestrial shores, 
Shall find a home in human hearts again. 

Peace! blessed word! In that auspicous hour 
The tranquil Heavens echo with its tone. 
Familiar there, and native to that sphere; 
And Earth, reverberant, returns the sound 



95 Peace on Earth 

111 wondering doubt, and awed astonishment. 
So long have strife and anguish shared man's 

soul, 
Scarce in his dreams he heareth, Peace be still: 
So long have hatred, war, and carnage ruled 
Over the tribes of Earth, and steeped her fields 
In blood of raging brethren, that the word 
Commanding peace, stirs Heaven, and Earth, 

and Hell, 
And Satan trembles for his sovereignty. 

Peace! for the Prince of Peace has come to 
reign 
Over His own; to bring His Peace to them; 
To teach the way of Peace unto the meek; 
To heal the broken-hearted, and distill 
The dews of Peace, in arid souls of men: 
To lead the nations into paths of Peace, 
And in its bonds unite their brotherhood, 
Not as the World, He giveth to his own; 
His blessed benediction is the Peace 
Which passeth understanding; yea. He keeps 
In perfect Peace the soul that trusts in him. 

Yet, where there is no Peace, and should be 

none, 
There say it not. Peace is for them alone 
Who seek it. and pursue the paths thereof; 
For those who prize the things which make for 

Peace 
And unto it belong. No peace is there. 
Nor can there be. with Satan, and with wrong, 
No peace is for the wicked; for the foe 



96 Fresh Wine 

That lurks in Self and Sin, a sword instead. 
Here must a Peace be conquered; only so, 
The Victors shall depart in Peace, and rest 
In it until at the Last day they rise 
Spotless and blameless, and are found in Peace. 



iFrFBti W\m 



Oh the wine! The red, red, wine! 

When the vino-leaves drip with dew. 
And the grapes grow bright in the arrowy light 

That pierces their sweetness through! 
The Gods never quaffed more precious a draught 

Than the pure, fresh, healthful wine. 
Which a mortal sips from the musky lips 

Of the moist blue cups on the vine. 

Oh the wine! The sweet, sweet wine! 

When the burning sun hangs high, 
And the hills are white with a misty light, 

In the shade of the vines I lie; 
And idly think, and drink, and drink. 

Mid the perfume round me shed. 
While the low wind sings on golden strings 

Through the grass that bends over my head. 

Oh the wine! The bright, bright wine! 

When the glowing western SKy, 
And the brilliant trees, in shadowy ease 

On the motionless river lie! 
Storing the blaze of the life-giving rays 

The full grapes swell on the vine; 
Then gather their bloom in the twilight gloom. 

While the young moon's faint beams shine. 



The Descent from the Cross 97 

®I)f ^tBtmt frcm tt|r (Ernsa 

The Christ has suffered. After agonies 
Too dread for knowledge or for naming, He 
Has bowed His head, and breathed His spirit 

forth ; 
And not a nerve with anguish now vibrates; 
Nor does a muscle quiver with a pang. 
The throes that shook His mortal frame have 

passed; 
Endurance claims no more. The nails, the spear, 
The thorns distilling blood, have all their force 
And potencies expended. Nevermore 
Can aught create another thrill of pain 
In that still Form, now gently disengaged 
Prom its last cruel cross, and borne, in peace, 

away. 

So, mortal Sufferer, whoe'er thou be. 
Or what the tortures that thy lot entails, 
Amid the stress that seeks thy Soul's despair. 
Take, for thy comfort, the full certainty 
That no intensity of pain demands 
Endurance always. Surely comes the hour 
That brings to thee, as to the Christ was 

brought, 
Release from crucifixion: when shall cease 
Thy Passion's pangs unutterable, borne 
To their last limit; and thou, too, shalt be 
Unfettered from thine instrument of woe. 
And find surcease of griefs whose stings can 

wound no more. 



98 The Old Years Burial 

®tje (@li f rar'a lurtal 

'Twas winter, and a sombre, gruesome night. 
Tiie fierce winds in their caves lay slumbering 
After a wild day's work, yet breathing forth 
Their icy breath upon the heavy air. 
The sky was overcast with fleecy flecks 
Of mottled grey, or plied with sable drifts 
Of sullen clouds, floating confused, as though 
The Soul of Darkness in mad rage had torn 
Her vaporous garments into shreds, and flung 
The tattered fragments in the face of Heaven. 
There, swimming in those upper depths, they 

seemed 
The dark debris of airy continents 
Caught up and carried by the crystal bergs 
That sail the vast aerial ocean's waste. 

Within a forest, where the tallest trees 
Stood closely serried in far-reaching lines. 
Their mighty boles piercing the fields of snow 
Like masts of some ill-fated squadron, lost 
Long years ago, and half submerged, and now 
Fast frozen in the night of Arctic Seas. 
Or, like the naked skeletons they stood. 
Those stalwart forms, of the Year's bravest 

sons. 
Death-stricken, at the sight of wintry Doom 
Turning the Summer's beauty into dust. 
While stretching jointless arms of vain despair 
To shield their humbler brethren of the sod: — 

Here, in the dense of wood there rose a fane, 
An old Cathedral with time-darkened walls, 



The Old Year's Burial 99 

And ruined arches, and a crumbling tower, 
And mullioned windows with prismatic Saints 
And fancied Angels in the shattered panes, 
New martyrdoms enduring. Various shrines, 
And altars manifold, were reared around. 
And honored with unnumbered gifts and rites. 
White-vested Choristers were there, and Priests 
In black and white and gold and scarlet clad. 
Here, through all ages, crowds of worshipers 
Come, none know whence; tary awhile to pray, 
Or sing their litanies, or tell their beads; 
And when each several service is rehearsed. 
They sink into the silent crypts beneath. 
And others come, an endless flowing tide. 

On this drear night a dismal dirge rang out 
From broken bells in the Cathedral tower: 
Bright beacons blazed before the entrance 

doors; 
And torches flared in sconces on the walls. 
On the high Altar burned funeral lamps. 
And low before it lay a ponderous Corpse, 
The stately Form of the Departed Year, 
Calmly reposing in the Sleep of Death, 
With lighted candles ranged from head to foot, 
And purple pall, and canopy, enriched 
With silver fringes, and pale blooming flowers. 
Sad psalms were chanted; 'De profundis rolled 
Its solemn surges through the vaulted aisles; 
In melting minor strains the organ moaned, 
As though the heart of Melody were faint; 
The Priests read fitting words from Holy Book, 



100 The Old Years Burial 

And many a prayer intoned; and every pause 
The people filled with dolorous Amens. 

At last the Requiem ended, and the bier 
Was slowly borne along the shadowy aisle 
And out into the silence of the night. 
The capped and cassocked Priests, and Chor- 
isters 
With tapers dimly burning, led the way: 
And following the bier, with heads bowed down. 
And dark robes trailing o'er the crusted snow. 
The Mourners came, in sad procession formed. 

Old Father Time, the Year's stern sire, was 

first. 
With tottering steps, and leaning on his scythe. 
His hourglass hidden in the ample folds 
Of his old mantle, grey and threadbare grown; 
While on his visage was a look which said: 
"What if, as Chronos, I my children slay, 
Shall I not work my will upon mine own? 
While I have power who shall hinder me? 
They seek my life, ungrateful sons! Alas, 
That One shall come who will not seek in 

vain!" 
Then sank his aged head upon his breast, 
And bitter tears ran down his hoary beard. 
He seems to mourn the dead Year carried forth 
To burial, and yet his sordid grief 
Is solely for himself; for well he knows 
That his own days are numbered; that the 

Book 
Of changeless Destiny appoints the hour 
When Time, decrepit now, shall be no more. 



The Old Year's Burial 101 

Him following, came groups of sorrowing 

Ones 
Whose treasures the Old Year wrenched from 

their hold, 
And now clasps closely in his rigid arms: 
Friends, honors, fortunes, hopes, and happiness, 
He seized, and crushed in his relentless grasp: 
'Twas these the losers followed to the tomb. 
Next, came a throng of sullen, angry souls 
Who hated the dead Year for all the ills, 
A^lictioQS, sorrows, burdens, pain, and shame, 
That he, through all his days, had brought to 

them. 
These seemed to mourn; and did; but not for 

him. 
In muttered words they cursed the cruelty 
Of him upon the bier, and gaspingly 
Hurled imprecations at his crownless head. 

Then, were there none who truly mourned the 

Dead? 
Who sorrowed o'er the losing of a Friend, 
And wept for him, the rather than themselves? 
Who then are these, with slow, unwilling feet, 
And muffled forms, and low, lamenting voice 
Of those who wail in dreams? saying: "Old 

Year, 
Return; bring back to us thy precious days. 
And let us be thy patient, faithful slaves. 
Oh leave us not. Old Year! Come back, once 

more!" 
Ah, these are they, — nor is their number few. 



102 The Old Year's Burial 

Though the dim darkness hides their sad 
array, — 

To whom the dead Year brought their Life's 
last hopes, 

Its latest opportunities for good; 

And having scorned, and spurned, and squand- 
ered these. 

They know, too late, the worth of what is lost, 

And smite their breasts in motion of despair. 

Yet some there were, indeed, with tardy steps. 
Slow-following in the rear; their eager glance 
Turning to scan the gloom of eastern skies: 
These paused, and whispering to each other, 

said: 
"Blessed forever be the memory 
Of this propitious Year. He brought us peace. 
And plenty, health, and hope, and joy; and took 
No blessing from us. but has left a store 
Of gracious promises, to be redeemed 
By Him whose coming we await this hour: 
The New Year. Let the Old Year rest in 

peace!" 
Thus said they; but they mourned not, nor 

were sad; 
Light were their hearts, their pulses beating 

high; 
They loved the dead Year for his benefits. 
But better loved themselves: nor paid to him 
The tribute of one grateful sigh or tear. 

And if, in all that various multitude, 
Any there were whose love for the dead Year, 



The Old Year's Burial 105 

The vanquished, fallen, impotent old Year, 
Was separate from. Self, and thought of gain; 
Any amid that throng, — and surely some 
There must have been; for still in human souls 
Some attributes of Deity remain; — 
Who loved the Old Year for his worth alone; 
Who honored him, in spite of all his faults; 
Who fondly pardoned weaknesses of will, 
And blamed him not for what he took or 

gave ; — 
These kept their grief deep hidden in their 

hearts; 
Their tearful eyes none noticed in the gloom; 
No murmurs left their lips; they made no sign. 

On, toward the West, across a frozen Stream, 
The funeral train pursued its winding way. 
Until at noon of that grim night it reached 
The Mausoleum where Dead Years repose, 
And whence those Specters of the Past come 

forth 
That haunt the lives of miserable Men. 
The weary Bearers rested here the bier. 
And venerable Priests, in solemn tones, 
Performed the last sad rites; -while choristers, 
In ranks arranged, with tapers held aloft, 
In chants antiphonal sang benisons. 
Till echoes rang through all the frosty air. 

Then, as the sacred music rose and fell 
In strains unequal, like the beat of waves 
Which dash and break upon a rocky shore. 
The night-winds woke, and sighed among the 
pines. 



104 The Old Year's Burial 

And rustled the dry leaves on shivering oaks, 
And sobbed and groaned, in weird pathetic 

strains 
Learned from the cries of restless, unblest 

ghosts ; 
And startled night-birds in the chorus joined. 
Flapped their broad wings, and buttering, flew 

around 
With shrieks and screams of terrified affright. 
Then, through a rifted cloud the pallid moon, 
Rayless and dim, a feeble shadowy film. 
Peered down upon the wide expanse of earth; 
Gazed for awhile upon the fearful scene, 
And then in sad amaze fled back again. 
And hid bew^ildered in the depths of cloud. 

For other sights beheld the wondering moon 

Besides the burial of the dead Old Year. 

She saw the land full-peopled everywhere, 

With natives of all climes; of every race; 

Of all conditions, stations, orders, ranks; 

Barbarian, and courtier, saint, and sage; 

In splendid garb arrayed, or clad in rags: — 

And all their seyeral vocations plied; 

The votaries of science and the arts 

Pursued their tasks; the crafty statesman 
planned ; 

The patient farmer tilled the rugged soil; 

Shrewd traders bartered everything for gold; 

Brigand and beggar sought for wealth un- 
earned; 

And men were building cities on the plains, 

And rushing to and fro with reckless speed: 



The Old Year's Burial 105 

The brutish masses toiled like driven beasts, 
Or idly skulked, and plotted desperate deeds: . 
Weak, vacant souls, in aimless wanderings 
Were sadly lost; and heroes, grandly great, 
Climbed slowly up the steep ascents of Fame. 

Nor were these scenes all that the pale Moon 
saw. 
Throughout the wood were groups of revellers, 
Dancing to music, over sunken graves. 
And reeling into them, no, more to rise. 
Men quarrelled with each other; murderers 
Dispatched their hapless victims; maniacs 

raved ; 
And felons gnashed their teeth and clanked 

their chains. 
Along the ground the dead and dying lay; 
Some slew themselves, and many died of want, 
Moaning in pain, or dumb with deeper woe, 
While by the perishing knelt pitying friends. 
With gentle ministries of small avail. 
And some were digging graves for other dead, — 
Dead hopes, dead hearts, death faiths, dead con- 
sciences, 
And burying them deep; too deep for chance 
Of future resurrection. Battles raged; 
Fire, earthquakes, winds, and waves, destruc- 
tion spread; 
Prayers, tears, and imprecations, jests, and 

songs, 
And laughter, in wild discords were confused: 
A deafening din to stun the listening heavens. 



106 The Old Years Burial 

These were the hideous, horrid, piteous sights- 
That the dim Moon gazed down upon; for so 
The world was busied at that dismal hour. 
It was a scene to make an Angel sad, 
And, if he knew no more than mortal men. 
To make him wonder who made wretched man; 
Or whether God his creatures could forget; 
Or He himself were dead as the Old Year. 
Nor was it strange that when the Moon beheld 
The dire confusion and distress on earth, 
She fled away in headlong haste, afraid 
Lest she should swoon, and fall into the world. 

Now were the last words uttered o'er the 
Dead, 
And the once mighty, honored, royal Year 
Was lowered lifeless to the yawning depths 
Of the deep vault in his imperial tomb; 
And scarce had ruthless Father Time ap- 
proached, 
And barred the sepulcher's great door of stone,. 
On rusty hinges hung, and silently 
Affixed his dreadful Seal, when on the night 
The bells rang out from the Cathedral tower 
In merry chimes; a thousand trumpets blared; 
A thousand sudden lights flashed on the scene; 
Rockets went hissing up into the air, 
Blazing in lines of light athwart the skies. 
And fell in showers of burning stars around. 

Then from the East a train of thunderous 
cars 
Came flying like a Dragon, breathing steam, 



The Old Year's Burial 107 

And staring with fierce eyes of flame, as on 

It rolled, bringing another Year to rule the 

World. 
Then cannon roared, and rent the air as though 
The day of Doom, precipitate, had reached 
The reckless Earth. And all its throats of 

brass 
The monstrous Serpent opened, with such 

shrieks, 
And harrowing screams, and dreadful yells, as 

if 
Through some vast chasm, cleft to earth's cen- 
tral core. 
The Lost in Hades had cried out in pain, 
Their voices blending with the mock of fiends. 

Then priests and people, all the funeral train, 
Each with a torch set suddenly aflame. 
Rushed shouting back, led on by Father Time, 
To meet the Coming Year, and welcome him: 
And in the old Cathedral, now adorned 
And garlanded for festival, to hail 
This unknown scion of an ancient house. 
This Heir to all the Ages of the Past, 
And seat him on the dead Year's royal throne. 
And crown him as their heaven-appointed King,. 
Bending before him the obsequious knee. 
God took the Dead: long may the Living live! 

December, 1883. 



108 Sir Pilgrim 

Bit plgrtm 

A stranger stood in my doorway, 

His form I scarce could see, 
For the night was dark and dreary, 

And wrapped in his cloak was he. 

"Come out of the storm, O stranger? 

Come in to my fire," I cried; 
But he stood in the darkened doorway, 

And never a word replied. 

"Who art thou?" I demanded; 

"Whence comest thou to me? 
And what is the quest, Sir Pilgrim, 

That hither bringeth thee?" 

"I am one of the long succession 
Of passing Years," quoth he; 

"I come from the nameless regions 
Of the vast eternity; 

"I bring' great store of treasure 
For earth, by Heaven designed; 

And I come to gather tribute 
For Heaven of all I find." 

"Alas! I have known thy brothers, 

Thou fateful Pilgrim Year! 
And they brought such store of sorrow 

That thee I needs must fear. 

"But come out of the stormy darkness, 
Come under my low roof-tree; 

And tell me, oh! tell me quickly, 
The worst thou canst do to me!" 



Sir Pilgrim 109' 

"Nay. nay; but tliou must be patient, 

That I can not tell to thee; 
Thou shall sit beside me daily, 

And my stores unfolded see." 

"Well, enter, good Sir Pilgrim, 

Let it be as it must be." 
But he lingered on the threshold 

And cried. ''What guest is he 

"Who sits beside thy hearthstone, 

All wrinkled, wan and gray? 
I can not brook his presence. 

So send him hence, I pray." 

The old man sighed and shuddered, 

And wore such a face of woe, 
I could not see him banished, 

I would not bid him go. 

"Oh, not a friend," I answered, 

"Or kin of mine is he; 
I welcomed him full kindly 

When first he came to me; 

"And my trust he hath requited 

With many a treacherous blow ; 
He hath robbed me of great treasure, 

Brought me bane and brought me woe. 

"But of late he groweth feeble. 

Wanes his strength from hour to hour; 

I no longer need distrust him, 
I no longer fear his power. 

"And I pray thee, unknown Pilgrim, 

If thy coming unto me 
Be to bring some new misfortune. 

To the son of misery, ." 



1 1 The Coming King 

"Tarry not with me, Sir Pilgrim; 

Rest thee first, then go thy way; 
Fare thee forth to other regions, 

Let the old man with me stay." 

"Not as thou wilt," said the Pilgrim, 

"Not as he or I decree; 
Years must go or years must linger. 

As decreed by Destiny." 

Then the old man turned him trembling, 
Bowed his bald and hoary head; 

Rose, and tottered to the doorway, 
Then into the darkness fled. 

Straightway then the Pilgrim entered, 

At my fireside sitteth he, 
With his cloak about him muffled, 

Pausing ere he spoke to me. 

And I stand before him silent — 

Save for sound my heart-beats make — 

Dreading much what he may give me, 
Dreading more what he may take! 



®1|F Qlomtng King 



Into the storm went riding 

A youth, on a charger bold. 
Out into the storm so dreary. 
Out into the night so weary. 

So dark, so dismal and cold. 
Little recked he of the tempest. 
For stalwart and brave was he; 



The Coming King 1 1 1 

With his brazen armor gleaming. 
And his princely plumes down-streaming — 
A goodly sight to see, 

By the fitful light of the torches 

Which flared at the open gate 
Of a city hidden dimly, 
By black walls rising grimly, 

In the distant realms of Fate. 
He rode through the city's portal; 

He left it far behind; 
As over the course fast hieing, 
As though from a demon flying. 

His steed sped like the wind. 
On, over many a mountain; 

Over the valleys below; 
On, through the wild woods crashing; 
On, through the mad streams dashing; 

On, ever on, they go. 
Defying the gale, they galloped; 

The earth beneath fled past, 
'Till rocks, and chasms, and mountains, 
'Till fields, and streams, and fountains 

Had vanished all at last; 
And they came to a plain, far-reaching, 

The shore of a wide, deep sea. 
Where mortals go ever a-sailing. 
With laughter, and sighing, and wailing. 

Out into eternity. 
Here drew the youth his bridle, 

And slackened his courser's speed; 
With frozen fetlocks streaming. 
With quivering nostrils streaming. 

Panted the foaming steed. 



1 1 2 The Coming King 

Then ended the storm its fury, 

Its roar sank into a dirge; 
But the sound of its restless sighing, 
The moan of its mournful dying 

Was drowned in the ocean's surge. 

Then parted the clouds in the heavens, 
And drifting their billows among, 

The wreck of a moon careering 

Came swimming, and plunging, and veering, 
And wildly her weirdly light flung. 

And there came another horseman; 

Adown the plain rode he; 
Wrinkled, and old, and weary, 
Alone in the midnight dreary, 

A piteous sight to see. 

His head was bowed to his bosom; 

His hands were clasped on his breast; 
Through the wet sand trailed his bridle; 
His sword in its sheath hung idle; 

His trusty lance was at rest. 

Yet the old man's form was noble. 

With his white locks streaming down, 

Though his purple robes were tattered, 

And his rusty armor shattered: 
And he wore a jeweled crowii. 

He saw the youth come riding, 

A fire flashed up in his eye; 
His woful plight unheeded, 
He never a challenge needed 

The might of his arms to try. 



The Coming King 115 

On rushed they both to the conflict; 

Mad hoofs flung the sands around — 
Each, sword and axe wide-swinging; 
With clangor, and clash, and ringing 

The terrible blows resound. 

They quitted themselves like heroes. 
For both were intrepid and brave; 

And one had ambition of gaining 

A kingdom, and over it reigning; 
And one had a kingdom to save. 

Fierce raged the battle and fiercer, 
Each seeming the victor to each, 
Until the stern veteran, gory. 
In shame intermingled with glory, 
At last rolled dead on the beach. 

All grim, and stark, and staring. 

On the cold, wet sands he lay, 
'Till the tide came rising higher. 
And the wild waves rushing nigher, 

Bore the ghastly body away. 

To his throne the youth went riding 

Bearing the crown he had won; 
And he added a gem 
To the old diadem — 

A tear that had turned to a stone: 

A tear for the Old Year vanquished, 

For the kindly soul just sped; 
But he dared not delay. 
And he hastened away 

To reign in the Old Year's stead. 



114 The Ship of Fate 

Along the reaches of that bending beach 

Upon whose sands the waves of Life's wide sea, 

Now gently lapse, now wildly thundering fall, 

A throng of anxious mortals, wandering, waits. 

Some, with high hopes and happy hearts 

elate. 
Pressed to the water's brink, nor seemed to feel 
The cold night winds around them bleakly blow, 
Nor served the thickening folds of misty spray 
That hid them from the view, to quench or 

damp 
Their eager, longing ardor. Other some. 
Back from the strand with trembling dread 

withdrew 
And fain into the distant wooded wilds. 
With gloomy shades and unknown terrors filled, 
Had fled, yet dared not brave the stern decree 
Of potent destiny, that bid them stay. 

Decrepit age, glad youth, and men mature — 
The beggar and the prince, wise men and fools, 
The mother with her babe and following troop 
Of childhood riotous, in surging crowds 
Jostled each other on the shore; yet all 
Save a few silent ones, who sat apart 
And sadly bent their eyes upon the ground, 
And listened to the whispered counselings 
Of lying, fell Despair; — all, save these few, 
Strained eager eyes across the heaving dark 
Of the mysterious main, that they might catch 
The first faint glimmering of the purple light 



The Ship of Fate 115 

Bound to the mastliead of that fateful barque 
Which yearly, from ever-clouded shores 
Of dread, inscrutable Futurity, sets sail. 
Freighted with destinies of all mankind. 

The midnight bells rang out, and suddenly 
Upon the far horizon's verge appeared 
A gleaming, star-like ray. On, on, it came; 
To tear-dimmed eyes each moment lowering 
More and more redly; while to eyes of hope 
It beamed, and burned, and brightened steadily. 
Until the morning's dawn revealed to view 
The fair proportions of a stately ship, 
Which grander grew, as in the perfect light 
On toward the shore it loomed. Anon her keel 
Slid grating through the shifting sands, and 

sank 
Imbedded and infixed. 

The multitudes 
Around her swarmed. And ever, day by day. 
Through the whole year, by hands invisible, 
Her wondrous cargo was distributed 
Among the motley throng. Scepters and crowns, 
Disgrace and honors, pleasures, pains, and 

cares. 
And poverty and riches, precious love. 
Firm friendships, broken vows, deep enmities. 
Hatreds implacable, and kindliness, 
Joys, sorrows, bright new hopes, and deadly 

fears. 
Privations, disappointments, and a host 
Of marvelous surprises, were bestowed 



1 1 6 The Ship of Fate 

Upon the waiting people, with what seemed 
A recklessness most indiscriminate. 

And passengers from out her cabins came, 
Amid the greetings of expectant ones: 
Strangers to seek new homes; and friends be- 
loved 
Restored after long absence; maidens fair, 
In bridal robes arrayed, were fondly claimed 
By waiting lovers; bridegrooms went ashore 
To find their brides; and little wailing babes 
Were carried forth; and now and then a corpse 
In sad procession borne. 

Thus while the earth 
Her circuit ran among the stars, the ship 
Lay motionless amidst the lapping waves, 
Until her cargo, vast and wonderful, 
Was all unladen. And the multitudes 
Bring day by day a store of good and ill 
Whose uses now were ended: hopes and fears, 
And blessedness and woes; things similar 
To those brought from the Future, save in this. 
That those were fresh and new, whereas all 

these 
Were withered, worn and faded. These they 

stow 
In every vacancy of hold and deck; 
And, weeping, lead dear friends aboard, of 

whom 
They take sad leave; then with a lingering 

gaze 
Upon long, mournful lines of coffined forms, 



Once More 117 

Flower-decked, and closely sealed, they turn 

away 
And disembark; then in the twilight watch 
The laboring ship weigh anchor and set sail 
Bearing its strange unprofitable freight 
Away, away, to the dim, doleful shores — 
The sad, forsaken regions of the Past! 

And on the beach again the wandering crowd, 
Through the long watches of the weary night. 
Awaits the coming of another Year, 
Laden with unknown stores. And in each heart 
The question lies unsolved: "When the next 

Ship 
Sails from these sands of Time, shall I be in it, 
A choiceless voyager, be carried hence 
To that far region whence no traveller 
Hath ever yet to mortal shores returned?" 



Once more! 
Among the shining stars the Earth has run 
Her endless circuit round the glowing sun; 
With seasons due of labor and of rest. 
Of bloom and fruitage has the world been blest. 

Once more. 

Once more 
The nations upon history's blessed page 
Have stamped the annual record of their age, 
And on our lives, through good or evil cheer. 
Is left the impress of a fleeting year. 

Once more. 



118 Once More 

Once more 
To thoughtful souls another New Year brings 
Abundant store of anxious questionings; 
The Spirit of the Ages reappears, 
And points our view to past and future years, 

Once more. 

Once more 
We ask ourselves if we this year have won 
The welcome plaudit for each deed "well done," 
And find with sorrow that the path we made 
Prom duty's perfect orbit wide has strayed 

Once more. 

Once more. 
With wondering gaze we turn our saddened eyes 
To pierce the darkness that before us lies, 
And ask what load of sorrow, pain and care 
Our weary souls will be constrained to bear 

Once more. 

Once more, 
With firm and high resolve we start anew; 
Though blindly we our devious way pursue. 
We can but work and hope, with fervent prayer, 
That Heaven will deign to make our lives its 
care Once more. 

Once more 
It may be ours to greet another year; 
But should the present close our brief career, 
May fadeless joys our future fate betide, 
And for each new guest Heaven's Gate swing 
wide, Once more. 



Address to Oratorio Society 119 

KbhvtBB tn lip ©ralnrtn S^ctwt^ 

of Saltimare 

"When music, heavenly maid! was young," — 

According to the poet's story, — 
She dwelt in depths of solitude, 
Within a cave of mountains rude, 

Remote from haunts of fame and glory. 

Yet often to her lonely cell. 

Drawn by her melodies entrancing, 

The Passions thronged, that each might feel 

Her influence o'er him steal, — 

His own peculiar mood enhancing. 

Thus Joy exulted, Hope beamed bright, 

And Love increased in her devotion; 
Pear, Pity, Grief, wailed loud and long, 
While Sorrow sang a plaintive song, 
And Anger quivered with emotion. 

They sang and moaned, they railed and raged, 

In accents wild, or cadence cheerful; 
Hate and Despair complaining sore, 
While Rage and Vengeance raved and swore. 
Until the dismal din grew fearful. 

But Music now is Matron grown, 
With tuneful children by the legion. 

Her dreary mountain-cave of yore. 

She has exchanged for Baltimore, 

And brought her brood to this blest region. 



120 Address to Oratorio Society 

A spacious hall is now her own ; 

'Tis true she well deserves one greater; 
But in proud Baltimore, you know, 
Our dignity makes progress "slow:" — 

She shall have better quarters "later." 

In olden days she was content 

Through shells and reeds to pour her num- 
bers. 
Now throats of brass, and tuneful strings 
Blend lofty notes with those she sings, 

Voicing the soul that in her slumbers. 

Her "flowing tresses" now are bound; 

Her robes are cut with fashion's graces; 
Her "buskins gemmed with early dews," 
Transformed to rubber overshoes, 

Because our streets are mucksome places. 

Of course, one naturally asks. 

What has produced these great mutations? 
Whose efforts put this "progress" through? 
To whom, her gratitude, and ours, are due, 

For these delightful transformations? 

First, Mr. President, to thee. 

Our grateful thanks we gladly tender. 
For tireless energies displayed; 
For courage ever undismayed; 

Accept the tribute that we render. 

For, what would be a ship's career, 
With none to steer it, on the ocean? 

What were a body without head. 

But body only, stark and dead. 
Without a pulse of life or motion? 



Address to Oratorio Society 121 

Thus mute our songless city lay; 

Thus drifted it across the ages; 
Until this benefactor came, 
Who proudly wrote its honored name, 

On history's emblazoned pages. 

He gathered Music's scattered bones, 
And put a tuneful head upon them. 

And, hence, forever dear to fame, 

Be Mr. Otto Sutro's name: 

Bring laurels to him; he has won them. 

And close beside, on Honor's scroll, 
Another name must be imprinted; 

Another tribute still is due; 

For brave Professor Pincke, too. 

Deserves the meed of thanks unstinted. 

Who else had ventured to subdue 

Such throngs as raved round Music's dwell- 
ing? 
Who with such vim could chiding storm, 
And for delinquents "make it warm," 

While yet their fealty compelling? 

Who so symetrical a whole, 

Of "members" so diverse, could fashion? 
Could guide each voice, and shade each tone. 
Blending all feeling, till, alone, 

Majestic stands the Soul of Passion? 

So, may the Muses crown his brow. 

Whose leadership is so potential: 
Who with such judgment, taste, and skill,— 
And such indomitable will, — 

Wields a baton so influential. 



122 Address to Oratorio Society 

Last, but by no means least, we bring 
Our thankful tribute to the Chorus, 

For those bright floods of song that roll 

Refreshingly across the soul, 

And sweep in soothing surges o'er us. 

Such feasts of sweet, celestial sound, 
Are foretastes of the bliss supernal. 

Entranced with these, no joy we lack; 

Nor would we wish our Eden back. 
Could we but make these strains eternal. 

'Tis true, good Choristers, that you, 

To reach the height of your proud station, 

Must bid defiance to catarrh, 

And sundry other ills, that are 
Peculiar to your grand vocation. 

Since singing symphonies entails 

The braving of all stress of weather. 
Folks may pray solo prayers at home, 
But to have concerts they must come 
And make their melody together. 

You practice early, practice late. 
The masterpieces of the nations: 

Great Handel's harmonies divine; 

Bach, Mendelssohn, and Rubinstein; 
And Hayden's glorious creations. 

But surely you should not repine; 

Or censure fate, as unpropitious. 
Virtue its own reward bestows 
By giving faultless ears to those 

Who manufacture sounds delicious. 



Address to Oratorio Society 123 

And think how fortunate you are, 

To perfect, here, your education, 
If, for the heavenly choirs, it prove 
That civil service rules, above. 

Exact a strict examination. 

Think, too, what benedictions crown 
Your efforts to enhance our pleasures: 

What hearts, that silent were before. 

Shall sing exultant, evermore. 
The echoes of your charming measures. 

Think of bright memories, secured. 

As one result of your endeavor, 
To those who sink beneath the tomb, 
To regions of eternal gloom. 

To know no more of heaven, forever. 

So, pray, sing on; discordant notes. 

And inharmonious dissensions. 
Reserving for those jangled lyres. 
Whereon you practice in church choirs: 

The ancient scene of such contentions. 

Sing on; but sing the same songs o'er, 
Under the same astute direction. 

Each former effort has the last. 

Its brilliant prototype, surpassed: 
Maintain your standard of perfection. 

Nor seek that limit to exceed. 

For Shakespeare says the man is silly, 
Who, with a blind presumption, bold. 
Attempts to gild refined gold, 

Or paint the whiteness of the lily. 



124 The Bachelor Girl 

Sing on! Sing on! In future days. 

Bards shall rehearse your deathless story; 
And tell to all applauding time, 
How, with your melodies sublime, 

You covered Baltimore with glory! 
Baltimore. May, 1888. 



Well! A Bachelor Girl why shouldn't I be?— 
With my heart my own, and my fancy free 
To order my life as it pleases Me, 
And none to dispute my Liberty! 

Is there any reason 

That you can see? 

A slave to some man would you have me be; 
Or else with his Lordship to disagree. 
Till it came to a dreadful divorce decree? — 
Which would not be pleasant for him or me. 

So the Bachelor Girl 

Is wise, you see. 

But if ever a time were to come — Ah me! — 
When youth with its brightness should threaten 

to flee, 
And Some One — just charming — could prove 

that he 
Would make her as happy, as happy could be, 
Would the Bachelor Girl 
Hold out? We'll see! 

New York, April, 189-1. 



Ah Hail 125 



AUTj^ail! 



"Mary, maiden, hail to thee! 

Highly favored thou shalt be!^ 
Spake the Angel from on high 
To the maid of Galilee, 
When the day of grace drew nigh 
Which the ages longed to see. 

"Hail! of women chosen one! 
Thou Shalt bear God's Holy Son, 
Who for men new life shall win 
And His people save from sin. 
He shall reign on David's throne 
Which shall ever be His own. 
Such is God's mysterious plan 
For restoring fallen man. 
Blessed thou shalt ever be, 
Mary, maid of Galilee!" 

Mary answered: "Let it be 
As thou sayest unto me. 
If such favor I have won 
Let the will of God be done." 

Mary, mother, hail to thee! 

Ever blessed thou shalt be! 
Though upon that starry morn 
In thy meek humility 
Christ was in a stable born. 
Shrouded in obscurity; 

Angels the glad tidings bring, 
And celestial anthems sing; 
Beaming splendors of a star 



126 Ah Hail 

Make Him manifest afar; 
Shepherds from their fleecy fold, 
Magi bringing gifts of gold, 
Babe and Mother wondering see, 
For His light encircles thee. 
And the saints of every clime 
Since that most auspicious time 
With harmonious accord 
Bless the mother of their Lord, 
That in thee God's will was done, 
Blessed Mother of His Son! 

Soul of Mortal, hail to thee! 

Highly favored thou canst be! 
For the message from on high 
To the maid of Galilee, 
Telling of salvation nigh, 
Is repeated unto thee. 

In the heart of God above 
Dwells the all creative Love, 
Waiting to o'ershadow thee 
With His own divinity. 
Mortal, though the gracious call 
Is extended unto all, 
Thou mayst be a chosen one 
To receive His Holy Son, 
Evermore to reign within. 
And redeem thee from thy sin. 

Heart of Motal, shall it be 
That the Christ is formed in thee? 
When thou hast such favor won 
Dost thou say, "God's will be done?" 



AU Hail 127 

Soul of Christian, hail to thee! 

Ever blessed thou shalt be 
If the image of thy Lord, 
That divine humanity 
Now in heaven and earth adored, 
Shall be perfected in thee. 

Life may bring thee toil and pain; 
Care may bind thee with its chain; 
Thine may be a bitter cup 
Till its dregs are drunken up; 
But when life's dark night is past, 
And its morning comes at last, 
Angels shall thy triumph sing 
Till the heavenly arches ring. 
And the pseans that arise 
Scale the walls of Paradise 
Countless ages as they roll 
Shall bring honor to the Soul 
Who the will of God has done 
Through the power of His Son. 

Sinful Mortal, hail to thee! 

Christ can thy redemption be. 
That He might thy ransom pay, 
And from bondage set thee free, 
He was born on Christmas Day 
Of the maid of Galilee. 

Vilest sinner, love divine 
Seeketh in thy heart a shrine; 
Streams of heavenly mercy flow 
Into broken hearts below. 
Though thy sins as scarlet be 



128 The Prayer Book 

White as snow He cleanseth thee 
Who has ever pardon sent 
To the heart of penitent. 
And a blessing waits for thee 
On His own Nativity. 

Highly favored sinner, say 
That His love thou wilt obey. 
Let the angels round His throne 
Sing with joy, "God's will is done!' 



®I|? fra^^r look 

This is not a bait 

To lure fickle fate; 
Nor is it even a bare hook. 

'Tis an India cup, 

From which you may sup 
The memory of my prayer book. 

For I feared that when 

You had gone again, 
Unless I some sort of care took. 

Amid life's fret 

You might forget 
To send me my Hebrew prayer book. 

So whenever you sip 

From its curving lip, 
Or even upon it you dare look, 

Think of somebody's fate, — 

Vide, Acts, five and eignt, — 
lUiless you have sent me that prayer book. 



Farewell 129 

Old Year, depart in peace! 
Thy flying, creeping, strangely lighted days 
Have waned to the last feeble, flickering rays 

That bring thy life's release. 

Old Year, thy work is done. 
With vernal miracles of loveliness, 
And autumn's stores the tribes of Earth to bless, 

Well has thy course been run. 

Old Year, we render thee 
Thanks for thy many brave and kindly deeds; 
For ceaseless ministries to countless needs 

We thank thee gratefully. 

Old Year, I love thee not! 
Thou broughtest blessings with one potent 

hand; 
The other of our treasures didst demand: 

The gain was thine, God wot. 

Old Year, thou hast removed, 
Despite our clinging, helpless hold, far more 
Than coming years are equal to restore: — 

Thou tookest our beloved. 

Old Year, thou hast betrayed 
The sacred trust our hearts reposed in thee: 
Thy frozen, withered leaves drift heedlessly 

O'er graves where hope is laid. 

Old Year, I blame thee not! 
Thy functions were ordained by higher powers 
To bow to God's decrees is thine as ours, 

Cr sad. or blest, the lot. 



130 Numbers 

Old Year, thou canst not take 
From our full hearts the love that they have 

known; 
The stature whereunto our souls have grown; 

The thoughts that in us wake. 

Old Year, go on thy way! 
Sink to the depths of that deep, tranquil sea 
Where ages of the past eternity 

Dissolve in dark decay. 

Old Year, one boon I crave: 
The memory of wrongs that we have done, 
The tale of triumphs o'er our weak souls won. 

Take with thee to thy grave. 

Old Year, now fare thee well! 
Thy young and puissant successor waits 
Impatient, at Time's leaden-hinged gates. 

His deeds who may foretell! 

Old Year, again farewell! 
Would we could bury in the tomb with thee 
The sins and sorrows of humanity! 

Old Year, farewell! farewell! 



Numh^ra 

Howso versed in mathematics 

Scientists may yet become, 
Of the good contained in numbers 

They will never find the sum. 
It is even very doubtful 

That the task can be begun 
Since no certain constant value 

Yet exists for Number One. 



The Temples of the Lord 131 

(Respectfully inscribed to the Rev. Father 
Matthew O'Keefe, in honor of his untiring la- 
bors upon a new church.) 

Great Solomon, the mighty King, 

With wisdom vast inspired. 
Whose willing heart, by flame of zeal, 

Most piously was fired, 
Builded a temple unto God, 

With gorgeous grace endowed, 
Where the Great Presence deigned to dwell. 

In glory and in cloud; 
Where all His worshippers might meet, 

For blessings from the Mercy-seat. 

But sacrifices there no more 

On fiery altars bleed; 
No more the stately solemn rites 

In those grand courts proceed. 
And that fair fane, the pride of Earth, 

On earth no longer stands, 
It's glorious beauty overthrown 

By hostile, heathen hands. 
For Israel, profundly blind, 

Refused the Saviour of mankind. 

So, to the lands all lying then 

In depths of midnight gloom. 
There came the light resplendent shed 

From Christ's forsaken tomb. 
And multitudes of sin-marred souls 

Renounced their evil ways, 



132 The Temples of the Lord 

With thankfulness of greatful hearts 
That turned their scoffs to praise. 

And countless temples rise today, 

Where David's Greater Son holds sway. 

And now great honor and acclaim, 

To one wise Priest we bring. 
Who half a century of life 

To God makes offering, — 
At the high altars of the Lord, 

Serving with tireless zeal; 
Shunning no ministry to ills 

Within His power to heal; 
Bestowing benedictions when 

He ministers to fellow men. 

He braved a pestilential death 

Religion's balms to bear. 
To sailors from a foreign shore, 

Whose needs he made His care. 
For Duty, to his fearless soul. 

No terrors had to bring; 
And graciously his valiant deed 

Was honored by their King. 
Though oft his deeds of pitying love 

No record gain but that above. 

Yet not this ministry benign 

His ardent heart contents; 
With faith, and hope, and charity 

He rears rich monuments. — 
Pit temples to the loving Lord, 

Where everyone may rise. 
With beautous reverential rites. 

Each heart's pure sacrifice; 



She ma Yisreal 133 

And future generations there 

Blend glorious chant with humble prayer. 

So, when beside these sacred walls 

His body, resting, lies, 
And angels his unfettered soul 

Lead through the opening skies, 
There, in God's many-mansioned House, 

May some bright altar be. 
Where joyfully he still may serve. 

In blessed ministry; 
And in his turn, through endless days, 

Bring tribute to the ceaseless praise. 

And when before God's awful throne. 

At the Great Judgment Day, 
The record of his work is shown, 

Our Blessed Lord may say, 
That of unchiseled human souls, 

Committed to his care, 
He fashioned polished stones to place 

In God's own Temple fair; 
And grant of him this verdict true: 

"He builded better than he knew." 

December 30, 1901. 



'Shema Yisrael," is the lesson we learn 

In the earliest days of our youth, 
'Adonay Elohainu," the Lord is our God: 



134 A Tribute from His Pupil and Friend 

How precious and blessed this truth! 
"It never can fail: 
Shema Yisrael!" 
"Adonay Elohainu," this is our God 

And ours forever shall be. 
Through life he will bless us, in death be our 
guide, 
Till "Shalom" — "Peace eternal" — we see. 
Through Him we prevail: 
"Shema Yisrael!" 

"Shema Yisrael;" 'tis our mission alone, 

"Adonay Echod" to proclaim; 
The Lord everlasting shall reign o'er the earth, 
And "One" be forever His name. 
The future we hail: 
"Shema Yisrael!" 



A ®nbutF frnm Ifta Pupil mh ^x'xmh 

(To the memory of Rev. Dr. A. S. Bettelheim, 
who died and was buried at sea, August 21, 
1890.) 

''Behold on Israelite indeed, in lohom there was 
no guile.'' 

'Tis midnight on the solemn sea: 
Slow sails the stately ship along: 

Pale moonlight silvers o'er the scene, 
And wanly lights a trembling throng 

Of strangers, gathered round the bier 

Of One whom distant hearts hold dear; 

Who wait his coming to their shore; 

But shall behold his face no more! 



A Tribute from His Pupil and Friend 135 

Encircled by the saddened band, 
A lifeless Form, the Rabbi lay; 

Untended by those loving hands 
Waiting to serve him, far away; 

Yet swathed in cerements of such grave 

As lies beneath the surging wave: 

Its pall the banner of the free. 

The stars and stripes of Liberty. 

O, heart that beat for all mankind, 
Is thy warm tide forever chilled? 

O, hand that labored for thy race, 
Why are tny potent pulses stilled? 

Great mind to plan the good he wrought; 

Teacher who practiced what he taught; 

Brave champion of God's high laws. 

Could he forsake Truth's holy cause? 

He answers not: those lips are dumb, 
That ear, though never dull before, 

Heeds no appeal. His eyes are closed 
On earthly sights forever more. 

At last that teeming brain is still; 

Nor hands nor foot obeys his will 

Who, ever at the call of grief. 

Hastened with comfort and relief. 

Then, through the stillness of the night, 
Rises the voice of fervent prayer. 

In plaintive, cadenced Hebrew strains 
That thrill upon the shuddering air. 

Each head is bowed; all knees are bent, 

Under the starry firmament, 

As, reverently, there, is said 

The solemn service for the dead. 



136 A Tribute from His Pupil and Friend 

"O Lord and Father, righteous Judge, 
Blest be thy Name, and blest be Thou! 

Sole King of all the Universe, 
Before thy throne we meekly bow. 

Thou givest life to sons of men. 

'Tis thou that takest it again. 

Thy mighty arm is strong to save: 

Thy mercies reach beyond the grave. 

"God of our Fathers, bend thine ear, 
And hear our supplicating cries. 
For this true son of Israel, 

Who under Death's dominion lies. 
With faith like Abraham's of old, 
As Moses meek, as Daniel bold, 
He sang to David's tuneful lyre, 
And preached with great Isaiah's fire. 

"Lord of the Spirits of all Flesh, 
To thy sure mercies we commend 

The soul that has departed hence. 
Thy faithful servant, and our friend. 

Thy Law was ever in his heart; 

He lived its treasures to impart. 

Grant him forever blest to be 

In thy supreme felicity. 

"And oh! for those who hold him dear. 
Shield and Protector, hear us pray, 

Those stricken but unconscious ones 
Who wait the sorrows of this day. 

Thy balm of Gilead bestow. 

And heal the desolating woe 

Of hearts that fondly round him twine, 

And his dear memory enshrine." 



A Tribute from His Pupil and Friend 137 

Scarce died the mournful tones away 
When one low whispered word was said. 

Then, launched alone upon the sea, 
Sank to its nameless, lowly bed 

The body of so grand a man. 

That, though his years filled not life's span, 

In him, the world through which he trod, 

Beheld the noblest work of God. 

The heaving bosom of the deep 

Received him to its close embrace. 
And in old Ocean's tireless arms 

This scion of a noble race 
Will sleep until it shall be said: 
"Remorseless Sea, give up thy Dead!" 
So large a heart could scarce find room 
In any narrower, shallower tomb. 

There, with his canopy the skies. 
The burning stars his tapers bright. 

The winds and waves in symphonies 
His ceaseless "Kadesh" shall recite. 

But aching hearts must still weep on. 

Mourning the joy forever gone, 

And vainly moan the burden o'er: 

"Alas! he can return no more!" 

But has his spirit perished? "No!" 

A thousand thundering waves reply. 
The garb of flesh that robed his soul 
Beneath the ocean's waste may lie; 
But borne by angel hands away 
From its frail tenement of clay, 
His spirit mounts to realms above, 
Where reign eternal peace and love. 



138 A Tribute from His Pupil and Friend 

Father divine, to fashion men, 
Shalt thou omnipotence employ, 

And Death be ever able, then, 
Thy loving children to destroy? 

Perish the thought that souls made pure 

Shall not eternally endure; 

That spirits grown devoutly wise 

Live not forever in the skies. 

And shall our narrow, biased bounds, 

Or limits of mere human creeds. 
Or the warped zealot's prejudice. 

Annul a life of noble deeds? 
Speak, Christian Priests, who by his bed, 
Fraternal "Pater Nosters" said, 
Would you deny this saintly soul 
The guerdon of a heavenly goal? 

Not your own Holy Writ declares, 
That, as in Adam all have died, 
So all mankind shall live again. 

Through that slain Jew, the Crucified. 
And who dare ban God's chosen race 
Beyond the reach of boundless grace? 
Or bar from his eternal rest 
The people God himself hath blest? 

So, Lord and Father, while we mourn, 

Thy holy Name we still can bless 
For thy departed servant's life 

Of piety and righteousness: 
And pray thee take his spirit rare 
Under thine own almighty care, 
While waits in peace his sacred dust 
The resurrection of the just. 
Baltimore, September, 1890. 



Paraphrase of Portion of 42d Psalm 139 

Pl|ara]jl|ra0? of a f arttun nf tltp 
42b f salm 

(Gratefully inscribed to Rev. Dr. A. S. Bettel- 
heim, by his pupil and friend.) 



As the meek doe, climbing the mountain 
steeps, 
When burning suns have scorched the sultry- 
air, 
Longs for the cool and shady covert, where 
Beneath thick-arching branches calmly sleeps 
The clear, bright pool of waters, fresh and 

sweet; 
Which, scenting from afar, in eager haste 
She mounts from crag to crag, with nimble feet. 
Their life-restoring draughts again to taste. 

Thus, O my God! climbing life's mountain 

peaks. 
And wandering, weary, o'er earth's arid wastes, 
I long for Thee! Thus ever gladly hastes 
My thirsty soul, to find the life she seeks, 
In Thee, the living God. Thus joyously. 
Though weak and faint, she seeks Thy gracious 

face 
Before Thy presence to appear, and be 
Allowed to taste the sweetness of Thy grace. 
January 4, 1889. 



140 To Prof. John H. Hewitt 

In view of any kindly offering which might 
have been made to him by his friend, T. J. W. 

A chaplet fair, of verdant bays, 

Is due the Poet, who hath sung 
Melodious songs, through length of days, 
And, though life's evening-shadows close 
Arouncr him, wooing to repose, 

Keeps his resounding harp still strung. 

The snowy locks of hoary age 

His honored temples long have graced: 

His brow, for thought and counsel sage 

The fitting dome, which these adorn, 

This silver crown has proudly worn, 
By Nature's hand upon it placed. 

Thus doubly crowned, he prostrate lies. 
By weight of weary years oppressed. 

Nor mourns the blessings Fate denies. 

But when relentless Time demands 

His treasures, with his feeble hands 
He clasps his lyre; and yields the rest. 

Then, as a lark ensnared by guile, 
And held by bars, imprisoned fast. 

Though captive, still sings on the while; 

So he, his melodies can pour. 

And on the wings of music soar; 
Still tuneful, like the swan, at last. 

Master once more of music's might. 

Before him generations rise; 
The young and happy, gay and bright, 



St. John Baptist 141 

Who through his skill achieved the art 
Which brings pure solace to the heart, 

When skies grow dark, and pleasure flies. 

So, throned upon his couch in state, 
Around him come, by Memory called. 

Glad throngs of loving souls, who wait 

To join the chorus of their lays 

In one sweet symphony of praise 

To him whose notes their hearts enthralled. 

With these dear friends of days gone by. 

Who gladdened all his life of yore: 
Who now invisibly draw nigh, 
The master's drooping heart to cheer, 
And calm his trembling spirit's fear. 
With hopes of peace forevermore: — 

With these, let friends who still remain, 

In unison their voices blend, 
And supplicate in earnest strain. 
That in the courts of heaven above. 
Redeemed by everlasting love. 

His blissful songs may never end. 



^t. 3)nl|n IBaipltst 



The mission the Baptist came to till 
Was to turn the hearts of men to the will 
Of the Lord, and in them a way prepare. 
For His love and truth to enter there. 
And since the unknown we can not learn 
Except by what we already discern; 
Nor love the unseen divinity 



142 Ode to Ella 

If we love no being whom we can see. — 
If the bliss of Heaven we ever would know, 
We must learn to love on the earth below. 
And very truly Baptists are they 
Who in our hearts prepare a way 
For the unknown joys of the world above 
By filling them now with an earnest love 
For the good, and the true, and the pure, that so 
The love of God in our souls may grow. 
1864. 



mt t0 EUa 



Ella! 
I love thee! While the light 
Of youth rests on thy brow; 
While peace, joy, hope unite 
To bless thee. Fondly now 
With a deep love 
I love thee. 

I love thee! And though care, 
Dark sorrow, pale grief, all 
The shades Earth's pilgrims share. 
Around thy bow'd heart fall, 
With fervent love 
I'll love thee. 

I love thee! Heavenly day. 
Will soon on life's dark night 
Dawn with unclouded ray; 
And ever in its light 
With holy love 
I'll love thee. 



ir^am lap 



(Caatb Sorn 

A vision of two stately oaks, 
Which once beside a common highway stood, 
Guarding the entrance to a wooded lane. 
Thick-boled and lofty, branching wide and full, 
In massive strength and symmetry they rose. 
And one shone in the sunlight, golden-green, 
Swaying the fringes of its tassel-blooms; 
While budding palely on each twig of both, 
Was promise of the summer yet to come. 

The lane led into an enchanted wood, 
Plunging and climbing, winding in and out 
Among moss-covered stumps, and underneath 
The dark lines of reticulated boughs, 
Until it ended at the gates of Dorn. 
Here, amid towering oaks and basswood huge. 
Maples, and cottonwoods of magic growth, 
Thickets of thorn, and graceful curving elm, 
With curious cabalistic carving scored. 
Clumps of straight poplars, slender and white- 
stemmed, 
And trees of fruitage wild, beyond all count. 
Appeared the vision strange of Castle Dorn, 
Dark-frowning, blank, and windowless. 

But all day long the birds around it sang: 
Chiefly the mourning dove, who for a nest, 



144 Dream Days 

Laid loosely a few careless sticks, then sat 
And moaned, and moaned, and made her hapless 

plaint; 
And throngs of clamorous blackbirds, whose 

bright wings. 
In tireless motion, each prismatic hue 
Reflected, and incessant music made 
Like distant waters rushing over rocks; 
And cheery robins; and small piping wrens; 
Bluebirds; and perky bluejays; and sleek crows, 
That circling sailed, in ravenous quest, or 

swung 
Idly athwart the heavens, and croaked and 

cawed: 
Myriads of squirrels, unmolested, frisked. 
Glancing and chattering, in the ancient oaks; 
And timid hares about the doorways played; 
And in the warm, still sunshine, little swarms 
Of insects whirled like clouds of sentient dusk. 

Pale anemones; and violets blue 
And purple; and the sorrel's dainty cup; 
The lavish dandelion's discs of gold; 
The tent-leafed mandrake, with its waxen 

blooms; 
And many nameless flowers, as pure and fair 
As though they sprang from seeds by angels 

sown, 
Pranked gaily all the freshly verdant sod; 
And drank the living light upon them poured, 
Through tracery of emerald-set boughs. 
And the soft air was perfumed with the breath 
Of all the blossoming wild-fruit trees. The thorn, 
Ungracious hid its clustering milk-white buds, 



Castle Dorn 145 

Beneath the greenness of its dark-bright leaves; 
The crab blushed deeply for the bitter tide 
Rising to fill its aromatic fruit; 
The cherry lifted fragrant, snowy spikes, 
Which by no sign its treacherous gifts be- 
trayed ; 
And to the tender grapes the plum discoursed, 
In whisper sweet, prophetic of its nectar. 
While every lightest breeze that stirred the 

boughs, 
Sent showers of petals, mingled pink and white, 
Among the green flakes drifting from the elms. 
Thus was the wondrous yearly miracle 
Of buried Life resurgent, now renewed; 
And new creations of fresh loveliness. 
And melody, and fragrance, doubting Earth 
Once more assured that God was yet alive, 
And mindful still of mundane happiness. 

Such, with a bright blue sky above it bent, 
Was Castle Dorn, encompassed by the May. 
And here the worker dwelt; dwelt with a few 
Of nearest kin, to whom he ministered 
With grateful care, by welcome duty bound. 
And here he worked; worked unremittingly; 
Worked with the slow, sure methods of the 

Fates: 
Tilling the soil; and caring for dumb brutes; 
Grubbing the barrens, and transforming them 
To fruitful fields; felling the stubborn trees. 
And shaping timbers to his various uses: 
And here he built; not house and barn alone. 
Nor stables, cribs, and pens; but built himself 
A character; and built himself a Life. 



146 Dream Days 

A dream at eventide. 
The twilight deepened, and there was no moon, 
"Come," said the Worker, "let us burn the 

Slough. 
The new grass grows apace, and we shall lack 
Wild hay unless we burn the Slough." 

Arming his men 
With clubs and pail, and clouts to fight the fire. 
They sallied forth, and southward bent their 

steps 
To a near wood, that in the darkness loomed 
Still darker. Balmy airs around thein breathed 
The sweet, fresh breath of the new life diffused 
Through every growing thing. And a low 

chant, — 
Sad with melodious discords, — from hoarse 

frogs, 
Who in the sedges now rejoicing crooned, 
Was Night's first vocal welcome to the Spring. 
Threading the mazes of the silent wood, — 
As men who were on some dark deed intent, 
Rather than one of light, — they groped their 

way. 
Until, emerging through the hazel copse. 
They reached the marshy meadow lying dark 
Beneath the calm eyes of the changeless stars. 
On, wading through the dews, the Worker led 
The way to where the grasses rankest grew. 
Upon the borders of a sluggish stream, 
Which filled the ditch dug out to drain the 

Slough. 



Burning the Slough 147 

Gathering the long, dried grass, that all 
around, 
Thick-matted lay, they twisted it in wisps. 
And deftly, then, the Worker struck a match 
Upon his knee. But a light breath of air 
Extinguished it. Another and another 
Yet he tried; but they likewise expired, 
Ere the damp grass ignited. Taking then 
His hat, beneath its shelter broad, with care 
He gained a flame, and set the grass ablaze. 
On all sides now the fire quickly spread. 
And the men came, and dipped their wisps in it. 
And, walking, trailed them up and down the 

Slough, 
Revealing all their course by lines of fire. 
To the clear eyes of Angels thus, perhaps. 
The pathway of the good through life is marked 
By lines of following light. 

The living flames 
Now ran about the Slough in reckless chase; 
Here, flying in hot haste; there, coming on 
In hotter still pursuit. With crackle, snap, 
And muffled roar, the wild things rush and roll, 
And rise, to revel and to fall again. 
The while dense clouds of perfumed smoke 

arose, 
And with a pleasant, pungent odor filled 
The air; and dimmed the brightness of the 
stars. 

At first a light breeze from the southwest 
blew; 
And as the fire burned its force increased; 
And then the rising winds fresh impulse gave 



148 Dream Days 

To the competing flames. The wilful fire, 

Aroused to opposition, slowly strove 

To climb the southern slope, against the wind; 

And strove successfully, until the men. 

Laying about with vigor, thrashed and stamped, 

And crushed, and smothered it, to save from 

loss 
The growth of wheat and timothy beyond. 

"How like the Spirit of ambitious Man," — 
The Worker mused, meantime, — "is that which 

seems 
To animate these elements which we 
Sagely pronounce unconscious. Even as we 
They seem to stimulate and emulate 
Each other. And they lack not courage, faith, 
Nor zeal, to struggle against odds,: — and win. 
It is no pleasing task to thwart their will." 

But now the flames that sped before the wind. 
His care demand. With flaunting banners wide 
Unfurled head-long they rush; flapping red 

wings, 
Whose rapid sweep resistlessly destructive, 
Approached the eastern limits of the Slough. 
The men their efforts now alone direct 
The fencing to preserve. Copiously, 
Along the length of line exposed they dash 
And pour the sludge and water from the ditch. 
Until the fierce heat backward drives them all. 
Then the hot, lapping tongues of ravenous 

flame. 
Upon the seasoned timbers freely feed; 
And every post, and every rail, involved. 
Burns redly, till they fall in blackened heaps. 



Burning the Slough 149 

In the next field, lying to the northeast, 
Where last year's grain had grown, and had 

been thrashed. 
Was a long straw-stack, crescent shaped, and 

high; 
Should the winds bear a burning brand to it, 
The adjacent woods, and Castle Dorn might fall. 
But happily, the grasses on the north 
Had grown so sparsely, that small care sufficed. 
To check the northward progress of the fire. 
And leave the scathed sward smouldering be- 
neath 
Thin clouds of grey, the dying embers breath. 
The west end of the Slough was not yet 
burned, 
And thither, to complete their work, the men 
Proceeded. Soon they had it all alight, 
And burning safely. Then upon a pail 
Upturned, the weary Worker sat him down, 
And bared his broad brow to the cooling breeze. 
The full glare of the blaze, which on him fell, 
To threads of lustrous amber turned his locks. 
While fitful gleams with timid shadows played 
Among the meshes of his tawny beard. 
Resting, he sat awhile; and watched the flames 
Climb spirally about the green, new grass, 
And at its top, in crimson blossoms glow. 
Or hang a moment, like some wondrous fruit: 
Watched the blue lights, shoot up the tall, dry 

grass. 
Then leap into the air, and disappear 
In curling, floating ghostly wreaths of smoke. 
And saw, in the black distance, sudden flames 



150 Dream Days 

Among the wind-fanned embers rise and die; 
And saw the men at work among the fires, 
Moving about in gloom and glare, restless, 
Like spirits lost; and as some plied their prods, 
And showers of sparks around them flew, they 

seemed 
Like demons torturing their hapless prey. 
Or Fates at work upon Plutonian forges. 

And One, — a Being from some sphere remote. 
Perchance the Moon, who having lived on Earth 
For ages, was accounted human now; — 
Stood, leaning on a staff and viewed the scene. 
Then said, "In dark barbaric ages, Man, 
Light-seeking, on his altars offered fires. 
Unto a God who answered him by fire. 
Emblem and evidence of Deity: 
And sacred fires lent their radiance 
To dim-eyed searchers for the hidden bond. 
Which links the human life to that divine. 
Man the sole creature is upon this earth. 
To whom the use of fire has been revealed. 
And power to dominate this Power of Air 
Been given. Only he kindles the brand. 
Waking to life a spirit in dead matter; 
That with the aid of this superior force 
He may a thousand dull, base things transmute 
To his own higher uses. In Man's hand 
The lighted torch becomes a scepter: he 
Who sways it best grows greatest. From the 

first 
Rude, charred canoe of the primeval savage. 
To the "Great Eastern's" complicated bulk; 
From the essaying forge of Tubal Cain, 



Burning the Siough 151 

To the amazing marvels wrought by means 
Of modern mechanisms, all the arts 
Of useful human industry, depend 
In some way upon fire." 

"Truly, yes;" 
The Worker interposed, bowing assent, 
"Gunpowder, steam, and the electric spark 
Attest the needful offices of fire 
In civilizing Man." 

"And even in 
The world's beyond," added the Being, "life, 

in all its forms of good or evil power, 
Is manifest by fire. There goodness shines 
With light celestial; while dark vices glow, 
Unwilling, blazoned in infernal fires." 

"Small wonder is it, then," the Worker said. 
If untaught minds have sometimes bowed before 
The shrine of this essential source, of light, 
And heat, and force, and worshipped sucli a 

Power. 
Oft, it seems in deed a thing of conscious life, 
With will, and purpose, as with powers endued; 
The power, and will, and purpose of a Fiend. 
In earlier years, when these broad lands were 

wild. 
Miles of unbroken prairie blazed at once. 
And we ploughed fire-guards in vain. Like seas 
Of molten brass, the fierce flame rolled and 

surged. 
And raged, and roared; and from the seething 

mass, 
Rose in tall spires; or on the howling winds 
Hissing and shrieking went ; leaping the guards ; 



152 Dream Days 

Mounting the trees that in its pathway stood; 

Seeming to seek, exulting when it found. 

The widow's corn-cribs, or the poor man's 

stacks. 
By day and night we fought it; often fought 
It all night long; at one point beating it, 
With great exertions back, only to see 
Another by its cruel prowess gained. 
With garments burned, and brows and lashes 

singed, 
With blistered hands; and nerves and muscles 

strained. 
Our utmost efforts scarce availed to save 
Some remnant from the fell destroyer's grasp. 
And the calm distant heavens, pitiless, 
Serenely shining through the smoke and gloom. 
Over the blackened desolation smiled." 
He, pondering a moment, paused; and then 
Half-musingly resumed: "The devotees 
Of unknown gods, could scarcely but believe 
That Powers of Evil ruled on earth ; for when 
Have Elemental Forces ever shown 
One gleam of ruth or sympathy for man?" 

The Being heard, and turned to make reply; 
But now the Worker's ever watchful eye 
Saw creeping like a serpent stealthily. 
Through the tall grass, a slender thread of fire; 
And with deliberate haste, he strode away. 
To check its wilful course, while yet he might. 
The Slough had burned for hours and was 

bare; 
The wind had fallen; and a murky cloud 



Burning the Slough 153 

Had overspread the sky, before, well-spent, 
The Worker and his men turned their steps 

homeward, 
Through darkness, deeper for the recent glare, 
And thickened by the heavy fragrant smoke. 
When they had crossed the Slough, and reached 

the copse. 
Before they plunged again into the wood, 
The Worker cast a careful glance behind. 
None else could aught discern but a faint gleam 
In the dim distance, flickering on the ground: 
But his experienced eye saw more. He said. 
"The stack is lost! The fire, burrowing 
Among the roots close-matted in the earth, 
Has nearly gained the stack; and it must burn." 
Nor had he judged amiss; the treacherous fire. 
Before they reached it, found a few stray straws 
And gliding, lightning-like, along their track. 
Vaulted upon the pile, and o'er it played 
Along the crescent's curve, in countless jets. 
Like a mad band of gleeful Imps escaped 
Prom Pandemonium, holding orgies wild. 
Red, purple, orange, blue, and pale white lights 
Together reveled; climbing now; and now. 
Commingled, rolling down in sheets of flame. 
Meanwhile, the black skies lowered, and the 

clouds. 
Shook from their heavy, drooping wings, large 

drops. 
Premonitory of the coming shower. 
"For once," the Worker said, "the elements, 
So oft inimical, propitious seem. 
This rain all danger will avert, before 



154 Dream Days 

The sleeping winds awake." Then scattering 
The surface straw, to give the rain ingress, 
They watched the smoking pile, as here and 

there 
A bright flame from its burning depths shot 
forth. 
"Vainly the human soul strives to conceal, 
To smother, or to quench, the fearful fires 
Which glow within it, to refine the heart 
Of gold, or that of dross consume." 

It was 
The Being spoke; but not for audience, 
Nor for reply; in scarcely conscious thought. 
Hereon the Worker said: "Is not this 
strange? 
Great Homer and the other mighty kings 
And princes in the realms of poetry 
And thought, compare great things with small; 

depict 
Their gods and men, in feeling, form, and ac- 
tion 
By the aid, illustrative, of beasts. 
And things inanimate. Whereas, to us, 
Degenerate, all lowly things point upward. 
Through Nature's humblest forms, through all 

her range 
Of unobtrusive actioUj we may learn 
Her lofty truths: — by nearness of extremes." 

The copious rain percluded converse now; 
And as it rendered needless further care, 
They left the blasted plain, which being cleared 
Of hindering growths, was now prepared, anew 
To flourish, and a richer crop to yield: 



Thorns 155 

As, sometimes, in what seems a blighted life, 
With ripened joys and springing hopes laid 

waste. 
The ashes of the withered Past but serve 
The Future to enrich and fertilize. 



0l|0rtia 



It seemed a waning day in early Spring: 
No folded leaf appeared on shrub or tree. 
The hazel blossoms, venturous in the copse. 
Hung brown, scorched by indignant frosts; and 

scarce 
The rashest blades of grass had hardihood 
To peer forth at the remnants of late snows, 
That in the fence-corners unmelted lay. 
Along the low and leaden sky there swept 
A bleakly sullen wind, that trailed the clouds. 
Unwilling, in its wake, and whirled the leaves 
From their death beds, along the frosted 

ground. 
Yet two together wandered down the lane; 
And passed beyond the mighty oaks which 

stood 
Before its entrance, like grim sentinels; 
And by the upturned cornfield; and along 
The field of sprouting rye; over broad hills. 
Thick-wooded; and across the bottom bogs; 
Until at length they reached a small, clear 

creek, 
And by its windings loiteringly strayed. 
Nor walked they on in silence, or in gloom; 



156 Dream Days 

Along their way the dauntless meadow lark 
Poured out the sweetness of his liquid strain, 
As with resistless eloquence he called 
The tardy Spring to hasten from the South; 
While here and there, in field of barren bare , 
A prairie hen droned to the cheerless day, 
Or, weary, whirred away in sudden flight, 
To seek, 'mid untried stalks, the doubtful 

grains : 
And any ringed stump, or log decayed, 
Or curious feather dropped from wild bird's 

wing, 
Or stone, or bleaching skull of horse or ox, 
Would furnish food for thought, and themes 

afford 
For converse, and the interchange of thought. 

Now on a tiny islet in the stream, 
Sandy and bare, a single egg they see, 
Without a nest, exposed upon the ground; 
And One sprang lightly down the bank abrupt. 
And waded out, the trophy to secure. 
Then on a fallen tree they crossed the creek, 
Where on its further bank a locust grew. 
Whose limbs were set with interlacing thorns, 
Long, sharp, and strong; and — wonderful to 

see, — 
With fruits of orient ripe upon their points. 
Plucking the thorns with careful hands, to add 
Such treasures to the Being's store, again 
They wandered on; till, tired at length, they 

sought 
A resting place, by thoughful Nature formed 
Among the gnarled roots of a giant oak 
Convolved about the soil of the steep bluff 



Thorns 157 

That jutted, as a wall into the stream. 
Reposing here, they listened to the flow 
Of the clear creek's subsiding waters; or 
The dismal callings heard of fearless crows, 
Who in the branches bare above them sat, 
And of each other hopelessly inquired 
If time for planting corn would never come; 
And at rare intervals they faintly caught 
A distant music in vibrations deep, 
As some lone pheasant whirred about his nest, 
Or in some hollow of the wooded glen, 
The genius of the creek tuned. his bassoon. 
"Pray, wherefore do thorns grow?" the Being 
said: 
This strange world puzzles me. Whether be- 
cause 
My vision is not clear; or mundane things. 
Not focalized for foreign eyes, look dim." 

"The dimness, mortal view affects, as well," 
Replied the Worker, with a faint, grave smile: 
"Terrestrial things are mysteries to men. 
Though deep the search, all human thought 

combined, 
Through all the ages this old. earth has told. 
The simple problems thickly round us strewn. 
Has failed to solve. At every point in life. 
We question why; yet neither earth nor heaven 
Vouchsafes us means of finding a reply. 
Thorns grow because they must, because the 
Will 

That formed the stem, the leaf, the flower, the 

fruit. 
Said to the thorn, "Be Thou," and it became. 
But why He wanted it, though it may serve 



158 Dream Days 

Some useful end, perhaps; or why He gave 
The rose, and not the lily, this defence; 
Or why he did not choose to make more thorns, 
To prick the creatures subject to His will, 
It does not seem His purpose to disclose. 
But these poor spines," — he said and softly laid 
A finger on their keenly slender points, — 
"Are innocent, and harmless quite, compared 
With those mysterious thorns which pierce and 

rend 
The souls of men, beyond their power to bear." 

"Ah! friend, you mean the mystery of pain. 
But is not pain the penalty of crime? 
The forfeit by exacting Nature claimed 
For the infraction of her needful laws?" 

" 'Tis safe to grant that pains do often hedge 
The pastures proper for the range of man. 
Fencing him from the dangerous precipice; 
And thus perforce his unknown good subserve. 
Yet all pain serves not such an end as this: 
The pains of infants who no laws could break, 
Nor any wisdom learn by suffering; 
The pangs which guilt on innocence inflicts; 
The fearful tortures of the sense or soul. 
That soften not the heart, nor bless the man. 
But to a fatal desperation goad 
Him on; these — and the sum of them is great 
Beyond our utmost efforts to compute — 
Can in your category find no place. 
Wherefore such pains as these? Tell; if you 
may." 

The Being sighed, and sadly said, "Alas! 



Thorns 159 

That right seems wrong, and can not be ex- 
plained. 
God is omnipotent, 'tis said; if so. 
By one assertion of His sovereign will, 
All pain could be destroyed. In one swift hour 
He could this writhing, groaning earth trans- 
form 
Into a paradise, where pleasure reigned 
Alone, and every creature breathed but bliss. 
Whereas, the hungry cry to Him for food, 
And starve to death, while His storehouse is 

full: 
With rivers in His hand, fierce thirst consumes 
His creatures: and His hot sun strikes them 

dead. 
His cold who may abide? Its leaden clasp 
Crushes the limb and life; nor would relax 
Its cruel gripe although the best of men, 
And tender infancy, and helpless brutes. 
Alike should stiffen in its fatal folds. 
Nor is this all. God filled man's frame with 

nerves 
Contrived with ecstasies of pain to thrill; 
And daily sees them in unnumbered ways. 
Beyond the limits of their tension strained. 
And sees the souls of men with anguish 

wrung, — 
Tortures untold, and inexpressible, — 
As far exceeding physical distress. 
As thought transcends dull matter's senseless- 
ness. 

Sees all the hopes and joys crushed out of lives; 
And hears their silent wail for treasures lost, 
As bleeding hearts their hungry lives prolong. 



160 Dream Days 

Sees suffering of every kind and form 

That intellect of demons could devise 

To wring a moan from Patience's smiling lips. 

Sees — not at intervals alone — each pulse 

Of this poor world has beaten pain intense. 

Through all the ages; and its every breath 

Has been a shuddering sigh. Yet God sits still, 

In His own bright beatitude content, 

And leaves the creatures He has made, to lack 

Supplies which He could grant, for needs which 

He 
Has formed: and lets them in the darkness 

grope, 
Until they fall upon His thorns, and die. 
God can, and does not, therefore will not, help; 
And therefore He wills pain. Hence, pain is not 
The evil that we think; or God is not 
The Goodness that we hope. Pain must be good, 
Or God His creatures can neglect, or else 
He lacks the power or will to do them good; 
And such a God were none, or worse than none." 

The Worker had not inattentive been. 
But silent sat, apparently absorbed 
In watching the strange evolutions made 
By a large spider, black and furry-legged, 
Among the roots that overhung the stream. 
But now, by some mischance, its poise it lost, 
And fell, without a thread, into the creek. 
The slow shore-current would have swept it off, 
But with one hand the Worker grasped a root, 
To hold him firmly as below he swung, 
And with the other reached the Being's staff, 
To the receding insect, just in time 
To meet its clasping limbs, and land it safe. 



Thorns 161 

"Why take such pains to save so mean a 
thing?" 
The Being questioned, in assumed surprise, 
"And why not kill it now? The ugly brute 
Is thief, and murderer, and villain quite: 
What pretext for compassion could it plead?" 

"I know no answer for so many whys," 
In thoughful tone, the Worker made reply. 
"My client insignificant may be, 
Cruel, and treacherous, and wholly bad; 
Yet he has life and feeling. And in me 
Some instinct, taste, propensity, or whim, — 
I scarce know which, — a satisfaction finds 
In seeing comfort felt by aught that feels. 
Whereby it follows, that if I relieve 
Discomfort in another, to prevent 
My own discomfort, my own pleasure, is 
My motive ultimate. So paramount 
Is self." 

"But tell me, friend," the Being asked, 
"Whence you this instinct have derived? Did 

you 
Create yourself? Or did your Maker make 
You better than Himself? More tender, more 
Compassionate and kind, and more benign?" 

"If that were possible," the Worker said, 
'Twould scarce be politic, I think, unless 
A fiend were God, and wished to merit hate. 
If I, supreme above the universe, 
Sat regnant, I suppose my first decree 
Would suffering annihilate, and roll 
A flood of joy around the world, to drown 



162 Dream Days 

The souls of men in ecstasy." 

"And Self," 
The Being added. "Nothing draws a man 
Out of his ugly case of self, and melts 
The icy hardness of his heart, so well 
As sorrow for another's suffering." 

"Ah! then must others suffer for our good? 
Pleasing reflection! Just arrangements too!" 

"Nay, friend, but for the sufferer himself, 
Some pain is an essential good. The soul 
Needs sorrow to mature its faculties. 
As ripening mast the frost requires: and as 
The same keen thrill turns all the bitterness 
To sweetness, in the wild-grape's blood. No life 
Is perfected, no character can be, 
Without a painful crown of thorns, complete. 
Not flowers, but thorns, Life's richest sweets 
distil." 

"It then remains for us to draw the line 
Between injurious and useful pains; 
Which, who of us is competent to do?" 

"He only, who the true connection sees. 
Between the cause and consequence; who knows 
The means that will produce the best result; 
And sees from the beginning to the end. 
A sight and knowledge far beyond the scope 
Of human faculties in this dim life." 

Small rings upon the water warning them. 
They rose, and with reluctance turned away 
From the clear creek. And soon the rain fell 
fast. 

"If we no uses for the clouds could see, 



Thorns 163 

Or were not skilled connecting links to trace 
Between our crops and rain, we might suppose 
That clouds and storms were evils. But we 

know 
That rain means bread, and meat, and all good 

cheer. 
And comfort, and abundance; and we smile 
A welcome to the frowning clouds, and meet 
The storms with exultation." 

"Let us then, 
Trust that the clouds which darken life will 

bring 
To poor humanity the good it needs, 
Hereafter, if not here. Trust that the same 
Kind scepter of beneficence is swayed 
Above the moral world, that with so wise 
And beautiful an order, rules in all 
Material spheres of this terrestrial life." 

Discoursing thus they walked; the while the 

rain 
Fell heavily, and the dim daylight died. 
The winds with large drops pelted them, and 

tossed 
Their straying locks about; with little rills 
Their clinging garments dripped; around their 

path 
The rain in slanting lances fell; and broke, 
And at their feet in splintered brilliants lay. 
Yet naught of this they heeded; cheerfully 
Braving the reckless storm's increasing force, 
With fresh, moist faces, and unhasting steps. 
They wended back their way to Castle Dorn. 



164 Dream Days 

"On! On! Still on, time rolls its tide; 
And life is ceaseless action. From the stars 
That spin through boundless space, to the small 

heart 
That pulsates in a mite, all nature moves; 
Whether with lightning's instantaneous flash, 
Or rush of foaming cataracts, or with 
Slow process of disintegrating stone." 

"Hence the successive seasons come and go. 
Bringing and taking pleasures, griefs, and cares. 
Now Winter, with its hardships and its cheer, 
The genial season has again restored, 
With its delights and labors. Thus these two 
Opposing forces, for each other work, 
And so between them mould, produce, sustain. 
Material Nature's various lovely forms." 

So two conversed, as slowly forth they fared 
Together, in a not unwonted quest. 
Of such additions to the noontide meal 
As bounteous Nature offered them unasked. 
Nor had they far to seek. About their path 
The tonic dandelion's runcinate, 
Long leaves were thickly spread; and with a 

knife 
Of graven copper. One, while with a nail, 
Used as a lever to uproot the stalks, 
The Other, for a salad gathered them. 
To an old straw-stack's fertile site, in search 
Of wholesome lambs-quarter they next repair; 
And when they had their broken basket filled 



The Charity of Beauty 165 

Above the brim, with these wild esculents, 
Prom the ascending sun's increasing heat, 
To welcome rest the cooling shades invite. 
Just at the timber's verge, hard by, there 
stood 
A half-grown maple, shapely, and adorned 
With ample foliage, whose vivid green 
Was by the red-brown of new shoots relieved. 
Thither they hied, and in its shelter kind, 
One stretched his long length on the grass, su- 
pine, 
To talk or listen as it pleased him best, — 
Rare privilege in late society, — 
The while the Other sat against the tree. 
Culling the greens to fit them for the fire. 
Above them hung a sea of blue, serene. 
Athwart whose depths a little downy fleet 
With sails of purest white, or softest grey, 
Went drifting slowly eastw^ard: while below, 
Their timid shadows crept across broad fields 
Of wheat and oats, whose tender verdure lay. 
Like deep-piled velvet, spread around; and then 
Among the billows of dark-tufted grass. 
Now gently swelling o'er the late burned Slough, 
Whence, — like the progeny of Night and Fear, 
Restless and furtive, — on again they fled 
Over the striped cornfield, till at length, 
They hid in the recesses of a wood 
In the far distance; where, — tradition said, — 
A race superior to mortals dwelt, 
Who once disdained not human intercourse. 
Though now invisible; and their dark wood, 



166 Dream Days 

Enchanted, inaccessible to man. 

The moaning dove had hatched her brood, 
and flown; 
And all the birds that sang around were gay; 
The jaunty woodpecker drilled cheerily; 
And 'mid white clover blooms the brown bees 

hummed 
Their busy roundelays. Like fairy bells, 
The cottonwoods their bursting catkins swung, 
And freed the downy sprites imprisoned there; 
Who flew away, each with a miracle 
Enfolded in its breast. The glad leaves sang 
In a low- whispered cadence: and across 
One soul, at least, there surged a voiceless tide. 
As Nature's sacred hand swept o'er the strings 
Of her own harp invisible, and woke 
A strain too keenly sweet, too sweetly sad 
For outward sense of mortal to endure. 
"On such a day, in such a spot as this, 
We scarce our lost Lemuria need deplore: 
The beaming skies; the fresh, fair earth; the 

breeze; 
The tuneful tribes; the fragrant, steamy mould. 
In unison appeal: 'Insatiate Man, 
Is not this Eden, paradise enough?' 
And for this hour, soft echoes might be left 
To make reply." 

The Voice came from the Form, 
Which still upon the sward extended lay, 
Half-buried in tall weeds; while over It 
The pointed shadows of the maple leaves 
Trembled, and danced, and fluttered, and re- 
posed. 



The Charity of Beauty 167 

Then suddenly It cried, "A treasure trove!" 
And bending down a hazel bush that grew 
Almost within Its reach, disclosed to view 
A beauteous little monster. Breaking off 
The twig whereon it clung, together they 
Sat down, the bright, repulsive thing to view. 
A long, thick, pulpy mass of paly green, 
With numerous feet; and horns; and globules 

black, 
Set in for eyes; and bristling crests of black 
On head, and back, and sides; and bands of 

gold, 
Or white, opaque; and discs, and lines, and 

points, 
Of white, and gold, and black, over the whole 
Green, polished surface, carefully disposed. 
"How marvellous," said One, "that so much 

care. 
Such taste, and skill,, — and thought apparently — 
By Nature's Architect should be employed 
In so elaborating such a worm 
As this! Who, seeing it, can fail to ask. 
Why, and for whom. He works?" 

"Both for Himself 
And us," replied the Other; "God delights 
In decoration. Witness the bright hosts 
Of gorgeous clouds around His suns, which 

rise. 
And set, at once, in some place, every hour; 
Witness a tender, cloud-flecked sky, like this, 
Or this same blue, with silver stars besprent; 
Witness fair Earth, whether in vernal robes, 
Or ermine, or autumnal tints arrayed; 



168 Dream Days 

And every pure, sweet flower, expression meet, 

Of incommunicable thoughts divine; 

And witness all the animated tribes 

Of earth, and air, and sea, whose coloring 

And grace words can not paint; each drop of 

dew, 
That holds an iris; and the marvels grand. 
That hide their glories in each ray of light. 
Ah! they do well, who building for Him 

fanes. 
Rear not poor, dreary barns, which scarce were 

fit 
To serve for use of wandering hippodrome; 
But digging from His quarries choicest stone, 
And bringing richest metals from His mines, 
Finding His precious jewels, and with woods 
Of rarest worth; all hewn, and carved, and 

wrought 
With the best taste and skill wherewith God's 

grace 
Has finite faculties of Man endowed; — 
And with that faithful care which perfects not 
Alone the lofty arch and column grand. 
But each minute, unseen detail as well, — 
A temple raise whose majesty and grace 
Awe and delight alike inspire; and whose 
Adorning,: — priceless products of high Art — 
Resplendent with vermilion, gold, and blue, 
Toned with relief of umbers, soft or grave, 
Vie, not in vain, with Nature's polychrome. 
Do they not well, who by such offerings, 
Appreciation of His works evince. 
And gratitude for His good gifts express?" 



The Charity of Beauty 169 

"Yes; well, if this they do, and yet leave not 
Undone, due ministration to the needs. 
Unnumbered, of distressed humanity. 
A tribute surely more acceptable 
Than gifts to Him who needs them not ; because 
A recognition of that love divine. 
Which is best pleased when others are most 
blest." 

"Yet did not he mistake that love, who said 
Of one such offering to the Lord of all, 
'This should be sold, and given to the poor'? 
And it is true that not by bread alone 
Man lives; though bread he surely needs. He 

eats 
Material food, forgets it, and remains 
Still the same man. Whereas, by proper use 
Of spiritual nourishment, the Man 
Not only eats and lives, but grows into 
Another Self, superior to the first. 
And therefore they who feast the souls of men 
Upon the Beautiful, and thereby feed 
The higher life, while ministering joy, 
Are benefactors to humanity, 
Not less than they who offer Man a crust. 

No thought can estimate the final worth 
Of even one stately cathedral's power 
To teach, delight, refine, and elevate, 
The countless multitudes of barbarous souls, 
Who, through unnumbered generations, feel 
Its sublimated beauty. Take away 
The architecture of the world, and man 
Less evidence of great abilities 
Could furnish; and less hope could entertain. 



170 Dream Days 

Of that high destiny which promises 
The power to express, and to enjoy, 
The Beautiful, hereafter, evermore." 

"Beauty brings pleasure; true; yet there are 

times 
When pleasure is unwelcome. When the soul 
The pangs of keenest grief is suffering; 
And can not bear the cheerful light of day; 
Nor any hope of happiness desires; 
A thoughts of pleasure is a sacrilege, 
And Beauty seems to make a mock of woe. 
Nature herein shows lack of sympathy. 
As in the sternness of her moods severe. 
Grass grows upon the grave; and flowers 

bloom 
As gaily there, as though their roots drank not 
The bitter lees of joy forever lost." 

"Is then the mother heartless, when her lips 
Press her loved child's bruised brow, and with 

a smile 
She comforts him, and charms away his pain? 
Wise Nature, knowing that our keenest pains, 
Although inevitable, yet must needs 
Be transitory too, since limited 
The power to endure; and kind as wise, 
By slow degrees benumbs the suffering sense. 
Till even Memory can scarce recall 
The utter anguish; and Indifference 
Looks dully back, almost incredulous. 
The force of contrast may a shock produce. 
When Beauty's soothing balm is first applied 
To the sore, palpitating soul; yet soon 
Its healing power is felt; and — marvel more 



The Charity of Beauty 171 

Beneficient — ^from the old life, a new 

And better, stronger, deeper life, it moulds. 

The Beautiful which charms the sense or soul. 

Pleasure alone was meant not to inspire: 

By natural law, our plastic natures grow 

Like what we most admire; and thus by love 

Of beauty, loveliness in us is formed. 

Man, in this world is ever incomplete; 

Through all his mortal life he undergoes 

The process of creation. And sharp pain. 

And smoothing pleasures, both, in the sure 

hand 
Of the great Sculptor, shaping chisels are 
Forming the Being for Futurity, 
By His far-seeing eye, at first discerned." 

"It were a cheering hope, that all, at last, 
Should reach the stature of the perfect man. 
Perhaps it may in some state come to pass: 
But judging from the little that we see 
Of human life; and from analogies 
Which everywhere in lower spheres abound, 
Comparatively few will ever reach 
The bounds of seeming possibilities. 
How many of May's blossoms set in fruit? 
And of these giddy, whirling cotton-seeds, 
Which sail they care not where, how very few 
Will bourgeon into trees? Nature's vast stores 
Are so exuberant, that though she guards 
Each species with most jealous care, she seems 
Indifferent to individuals. — 
Which theory, this unctuous, sleek worm, 
Might, if it could, be tempted to gainsay." 



172 Dream Days 

Replacing it upon its native bush, 
In courteous tone, the Creature he addressed: 
"Thanks, hideous Beauty, for the pleasing text, 
Which for our sage discourse, you have sup- 
plied; 
And pray your pardon grant, to the rude man, 
Selfish enough to take you from your haunt, 
And so detain you, at his own behest. 
Without one thought of what you might desire." 
He took the basket now, and through the 
wood. 
They started to return; but blooming things. 
Wild-roses, spiderwort, and adder's-tongue. 
With shining, threatening forks, their steps de- 
layed. 
And then they found ripe berries in the grass, 
And in a dock-leaf basin gathered them; 
Which broke beneath them, wasting time and 

care. 
Then One, versed in the ways of animals, 
Fashioned a nest of long, fine grass, to hold 
The luscious fruit; which, when it was well 

filled. 
The Other with a fragrant garland graced. 
Of purple horsemint blooms, edged with a 

fringe 
Of delicate green leaves. One lifted then 
The broken basket's weight; while in both 

hands 
The Other held the nest; and laden thus, 
They hastened their return to Castle Dorn. 



Being 173 



ln«0 



Embowered in the peaceful, dreamy shade 
Of its majestic oaks, and bending elms. 
Its gracious vines, and generous wild-fruit trees, 
And thickets dense of darkly-shining thorn, 
Grey Castle Dorn in utter silence lay. 

The hot air through its darkened chambers 

stole, 
Over closed eyelids; then, with slow ascent. 
Above the stairway motionlessly hung: 
While in the hall below. Two sat, apart. 
With bowed heads dreaming over wise, old 

books. 
While yet they dreamed, together they arose, 
And taking from its place the wander-staff, 
Went slowly out through the wide-open door, — 
The great, brown watch-dog, which half-sleeping 

lay 
Upon the threshold, following, — and passed 
Beneath the trees, into the mid-day glare 
Of the still yards, where lazy cattle stood 
And dozed, unmindful of their cuds; and fowls, 
Alternate wings extending, sunned themselves. 
Half-burrowing in the earth. 

Then on the Two 
Into the darkness of the plum-grove strayed. 
And marked the swelling of the half-grown 

fruit; 
And then among the vines whose tendrils 

gleamed 
Pale green and crimson, 'mid the clustering 

leaves 



174 Dream Days 

That hid the tender grapes. Thence on beneath 
Green waxen spheres of spicy crab-apples, 
And slowly-filling cherries, which e'en yet 
Delayed their treacherous blushes. So along 
The lane, where giant basswoods late displayed 
The creamy blossoms that with odors sweet 
And subtle filled the pulseless air, — they went, 
Passing unchallenged by the Sentinels, 
Which in the stateliness, and pride, and wealth, 
And glory of full summerhood, were now 
Grandly arrayed. 

Then a broad field appeared. 
And in the northern distance stretched away, 
Level and wrinkled, like a darkling sea. 
For now its green lines, widening,* had met. 
And after many ploughings, the rank corn 
Had been, at length, laid by. Along the field 
The road led on, till through a skirting growth, 
Half wood, half coppice, — where the sumach 

bright 
Lifted aloft its thyrsus, golden-green, 
And hazels curled their clustered pericarps. 
And fragrant horsemint wore its graceful crown, 
It opened on a field of early rye. 
Already flecked with foam of ripening heads 
Floating and melting, as upon the breeze 
Its undulations lightly rose and fell. 

Here a fair prospect met the wandering eye; 
Not bright with the unvaried emerald 
Of Spring's soft, flowing robe; but with all hues 
And shades of summer-green diversified, 
The contrast heightening the charms of each. 
Pale seas of headed wheat o'er levels swept 



Being 1 75 

Or mounted in the rolling prairie's swells; 

And here and there a field of tardy oats 

Lay like a lake of beryl, islanding 

A few unneeded trees. Upon two sides 

The grain-fields cut the sky, as though they 

were 
The utmost limits of the fertile earth: 
Whence the grey shadows, which, like fitful 

thoughts, 
Darkened, dissolved, and formed again, and 

sped 
Away in heedless flight, or wild pursuit, 
Plunged headlong into the abyss of space. 
The vision otherwhere was darkly closed 
By dendral walls, in cloud-like masses piled. 
With tender, pallid lights of fresh, new-green 
Glinting from richer depths of earlier growths. 
In the white sunshine's fiercely glittering 

gleams. 
But prospects more remote, or near, delayed 
Not long the footsteps of the Wanderer; 
Short space they gazed on fields and foliage, 
With fences sunk in thrifty weeds between; 
And pausing for a moment by the hedge, — 
Where a large butterfly with swaying wings 
Of downy velvet, painted gorgeously. 
Sat dreamily upon a drooping rose; — 
They watched the black, gold-banded bees at 

Work 
Among the purple clover-blossoms, whose sweets 
Not without recompense they sought, but with 
A store of fruitful pollen well repaid. 
Then, seeking refuge from the burning rays 



176 Dream Days 

Of the midsummer sun, beyond the rye 
They hastened on, and found a hidden spring 
Amid the tall grass of a billowy Slough, 
Whose waters cool they gladly quaffed, although 
They knew that frisking polliwogs, and things 
Alive, in microscopic myriads 
Of horrid forms, were mingled with the draught. 
So thirsty souls, through life's exhaustive day. 
Too often shake their eagerness at streams 
Whose turgid waters in solution hold 
Horrors too hideous for an open view. 

On, over the new breaking, through the late 
Plough-planted corn, they took their way; and 

o'er 
The wooded hills where fire-flowers glowed; 
And through the snowy clover-drifts which lay 
Upon the verdure of the bottom bog; 
To the clear creek, that, cradled by the bluffs. 
And curtained close with salvage greenery. 
Sang softly its own lullaby, to chant 
Of murmuring leaves fitly attuned. Again 
They found a resting-place upon its banks; 
And in the grateful shade, at ease disposed, 
Resumed their books; and either read aloud 
Aught that they wished to share; or following 
Some leading thought, as was their wont, dis- 
cussed 
The problems of existence. 

Shadow leaves 
Fell on the thoughtful pages, for between 
Them and the turquoise sky, suspended hung 
Soft clouds of foliage that dimmed the day. 



Being U7 

But here and there the clear creek's depths 

were paved 
With pale turquoise, and its smooth hyaline, 
True as an echo, rendered its green shores 
In softened repetition; and the trees 
Upon its marge, grew double, hase to base. 
Brown, lustrous weavers, on the water wove 
Imaginary webs, in rapid gyres; 
And brilliant dragon-flies, with wings of gauze 
Above it darting sailed. The scarabs' shards 
Plashed back the light; laborious emmets 

raised 
Their ridgy circles o'er the mellow soil; 
Midges, and gnats, flyhawks, and all the scale 
Of insect being, in unnumbered forms, 
Down to the merest animated point. 
And bright with every gorgeous hue embraced 
In full prismatic chord, their birthright claimed 
In the vast fields of ether, and among 
The wastes and wilds of ample earth; for now 
The blessed tide of happy summer-life 
Rolled swelling o'er the land. — Happy, although 
A hungry wasp, dark-shining, steely-blue, 
Came by the Readers, with a frightened worm 
In his exultant grasp, yet let it fall. 
And the same moment, a small, ash-grey toad, 
With round, black eyes, and palpitating throat. 
Sprang from an old tree's roots, and swallowed 

• it:— 
Happy, although each life became the prey 
And sustenance of other lives, because 
Each life without demur fulfilled 
The end for which it was designed: and naught 



178 Dream Days 

But Goodness can create; or faith and hope 
Are only empty names. 

The day wore on; 
And when at length the dusky shadow-leaves 
Left the strange pages, and began to climb, 
In social mood the neighboring eastern trees. 
The stolen lore in whispers to relate. 
The Worker and the Being turned away, 
To leave their charmed retreat. But as they 

rose 
A gruesome vision met their startled gaze. 
And held them motionless. Through the dim 

wood 
A fearful, nameless ghoul, with its dark train 
Of imps attendant, to the stream came down; 
Traversed its banks awhile, as though intent 
Upon some fruitless quest, then turned again 
Into the shadowy wood, and disappeared. 

Spellbound the Two had stood, and the great 
dog. 
Courageous to attack his natural foes. 
Now shrank instinctively away, and claimed 
Protection from his master. Nature thus, 
Even through brutes, proclaims Man's sover- 
eignty. 
Much marvelling upon the wondrous sight. 
So seldom to the eyes of men vouchsafed. 
They left the spot, and their wild way pursued 
Through trackless wastes; winding through 

deep ravines. 
Where trickling streamlets ventured on their 

way; 
Climbing the hills, with ever ready aid 
Of willing wanderstaff ; crossing rough sloughs, 



Being 179 

Half-dry, on withered tussocks of old grass 
And roots uncertain; wading then through ferns 
Whose frouds were freighted with the magic 

spores 
Which render men invisible, and whose 
Tall tops were closely rolled in curious coils 
Of inliy blackness. So at length they came 
Upon the wooded hills where numerous herds 
Of restless cattle browsed; and 'mid the din 
Of jangling bells, the Worker's practiced ear 
His own distinguished; and with noisy aid 
Of the great watch-dog, gathering his flocks, 
He sent them scurrying home. 

Through deepening shades. 
And the wood's reverent silence, on the Two* 
Proceeded. Presently a strain, low, soft. 
Melodious, as a fairy's distant song. 
Grew on the wondering sense. With a quick 

tone 
Expressing comprehension, suddenly 
The Worker plunged into the wood, and soon 
Revealed, near by, a darkly pendent cone, 
Solid, but to its inmost core instinct 
With clinging, crawling, buzzing troubled life. 

Without delay the Two sped quickly back 
To glooming Castle Dorn, where little time 
Sufficed them to procure a welcome meal, 
And needments for their enterprise; and then 
Through darkness they were driving down the 

lane, 
In a farm-wagon, to secure the swarm. 
Before they reached the place, the horses' heads 
They turned into the wood; there fastening 



180 Dream Days 

The team, they left the wain; and with a light, 
A dark brown candle, in an ancient stick, — 
They to the scene of action went. 

The hough 
That held the swarm hung low; and under it 
Upon a bench, they placed an upturned hive: 
The Worker then cut off the branch, and with 
Slow care they lowered the dark murmuring 

mass 
Of restless, pain-and-sweetness-giving, life 
Into the hive; then stepped aside, to wait 
The further movements of the sapient throng. 
Finding themselves disturbed by unknown cause 
Alarm spread through the roused community; 
Some over-ran the branch; and some the sides 
Of the strange hive crept down; and other some 
Wheeled wildly in uncertain flight, to find 
What danger threatened them. When, finding 

naught, 
They settled quietly, though still dispersed. 
The Worker ventured on a fresh assault. 
Upon the ground near by, he spread a cloth, 
Then took the teeming hive into his arms, 
Keeping the swarm within, and on the cloth 
Set it reversed, leaving the bough beneath. 

The wrathful bees, supposing they at length 
Had found a foe, the Worker now beset, 
With angry buzz, and levin-pointed darts. 
Whirling about his unprotected head. 
And his bare hands uplifted in defense, 
Until, confused by hissings on all sides, 
And by fierce, sudden, unexpected thrusts 
Of red-hot javelins, and envenomed spears. 



Being 181 

Transported quite, he raging beat the air, 
And with low, ululating groans, bemoaned 
A broken skull, and limbs forever maimed. 
Whereat the Being laughed; not from a lack 
Of sympathy; but with amused surprise 
To find a paltry insects sting possessed 
Of potency to vanquish instantly 
The quick valor which could meet unmoved 
A roaring lion, or walk tranquilly 
Up to the cannon's mouth. 

Leaving the bees 
Their own devices to pursue, the Two 
Back to the wagon went; and there awhile 
They rested from their task; One, seated on 
The heaps of hay strewn in the wain; the while 
With folded arms the Other standing leaned 
Against the wagon-box, and much deplored 
His ignominious conduct; and declared 
That he could without flinching bear the pain; 
And wished the bees would put him to the 

proof; 
And finally adventuring to the test. 
Went back amidst the swarm. 

Then left alone, 
One silent sat, beneath the trembling stars. 
And converse held with Heaven, or with self; 
Until the Other came with a report 
Of favorable progress. The white road 
Cleft the dark wood, and down it, on the sand, 
The candle burned, like a lost, fallen star. 
Now toward it they went; its feeble rays 
Not far diffused, shone upward on the leaves, 
With blanching light, fantastical, and weird. 



182 Dream Days 

The bees had settled chiefly in the hive, 
Yet were its sides half covered, and about 
The branch they clung, and on the bench or 

ground 
Wandered a few confused. A leafy twig. 
The Worker for a besom served; with it 
He gently brushed the bees into the hive 
And if they stung him made no suffering sign. 

When all but a few stragglers were safe 
housed, 
The Two gathered the ends of the great cloth 
And folding them across the top, and down 
The sides of the full hive, secured the whole 
With a strong band of twisted hay, and then 
The Worker in the wagon placed the hive, 
Embedded in soft hay; then carefully 
Extinguished the wasted candle's flame, 
They climbed again into the rattling wain. 
And through the moonlight, singing merrily. 
Triumphant, they drove back to Castle Dorn. 



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